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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28633716">In Shining Armor</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/kayisdreaming/pseuds/kayisdreaming'>kayisdreaming</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M, Pining, mentions of the other blue lions but they aren't in this fic, no specific route, oh yeah and nobles just being skeevy, slightly canon divergent, slowburn, takes place during the timeskip</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 06:02:53</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>34,400</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28633716</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/kayisdreaming/pseuds/kayisdreaming</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The Prince is dead, the Kingdom is falling apart, and the Empire is attacking. But the problem isn't just on the battlefield, it's internal, too. Sylvain only realizes how bad it is when he receives a letter from Ingrid--that her father is actually considering an offer from Adrestia. Of course he has to help; after all, it's a knight's duty to save a damsel in distress--to fight the injustices of the courts, war, conflict, and more! And that's definitely the only reason . . . Right?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Ingrid Brandl Galatea/Sylvain Jose Gautier</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>39</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Sylvgrid Big Bang</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Wonderful artwork done by <a href="https://twitter.com/tinypaperstar">@tinypaperstar </a>: <a href="https://twitter.com/tinypaperstar/status/1347982385661562882">ART </a></p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There was always a jarring shift between roaming the Gautier-Sreng border and returning home. Sure, the halls were warmer than iced-over trees and the beds were more comfortable than hard soil. And, true, there was something satisfying about Sylvain getting his fill rather than cautiously picking at his rations. And the whole ‘not constantly under the threat of death’ part was always a bonus.</p>
<p>Of course, there was a lot that was the same. People were still hostile to his presence, though for different reasons. The central villages of Gautier were just as prone to bandits as the villages on the border. Their weapons weren’t much different, and their skills were comparable. The only real difference was that the Srengi bandits wanted better access to resources, while the Gautier ones wanted resources <em>and </em>desperately wanted to declare how much they loathed their lord.</p>
<p>Admittedly, the Margrave would never admit that the internal wounds festering could be just as bad as anything Sreng did. No, to him Sreng was <em>always </em>worse. It was as if he was terrified that they would come en masse the <em>moment</em> that Gautier turned his attention from the border. </p>
<p>And so Sylvain kept finding himself out there, knee-deep in snow, path lit by the glow of the Lance of Ruin.</p>
<p>Realistically, it was the Lance of Ruin's fault. If his father hadn't given it to him, or if the Professor still had it when they'd disappeared, he wouldn't be in this mess. His father would be doing this, leaving Sylvain to go as he pleased. Sylvain could help the nearby villages reeling from the war, sneak into the capitol and get an idea of how badly the Kingdom stood, and (maybe) even help Felix search for Dimitri. He wouldn't have to concern himself with people who saw the war with Gautier as a hobby. He wouldn’t have to endure listening to the father who would let Faerghus burn before he ever let Sreng have a step more land.</p>
<p>As if they'd even want this ice-covered rock with war-tired people.</p>
<p>With a sigh, he fell back into his bath. The water was hardly warner than the air—it had probably been a pleasant temperature at one time, but the frigid nature of the manor always sapped the warmth from anything comforting.</p>
<p>His fingers brushed over the side of the tub, fire magic thrumming into the metal. It mildly improved the temperature, but he couldn’t push it to be anything more than lukewarm. He had little faith that he could avoid boiling himself alive.</p>
<p>At least somewhat relaxed now, he dipped his head under the water. He could feel his hair slowly begin to shift with the flow of water, softening as ice melted off each tip. Warmth seeped into sore and drained muscles, gentle like a warm embrace. Gradually, he found it easier to move his fingers, relishing in the now painless sensation of clenching and unclenching his fists.</p>
<p>With the water above him like this, it seemed like the world stopped spinning.</p>
<p>He knew it was selfish, greedy, asking for a moment like this. He knew he was lucky. He only had to deal with bandits, limited resources to control, and an overbearing father. The others, he knew, had that <em>and </em>Adrestia bearing over them like a vulture waiting for an ill animal to die.</p>
<p>Then again, maybe not all of them. Mercedes was probably okay; it was possible she found sanctuary in a church that didn’t ask questions and could slide back into a happier life. It was equally likely that she was either dragged home or dragged into this war. Even if she tried to help with the church, healers were in short supply and skilled ones were even rarer.</p>
<p>It was likely that Annette and Ashe had fallen into the same pit. It had been no surprise that House Dominic had allied with the Dukedom early in its foundation. Annette, inevitably, had been forced into it by her family. And if Ashe was still acting alongside Lonato’s men—even if just for him and his siblings to survive—they would of course bear arms with Adrestia to fight the church. Even if they didn’t agree wholly with the purpose and methods, Annette and Ashe could soon enough fight on the front lines against the Kingdom. </p>
<p>As for the Kingdom . . . their allies' numbers were dwindling.</p>
<p>Dimitri was dead—executed before anyone could step in. And It was likely that Dedue had refused to accept such a threat to his lord, so he’d probably been killed, too. Maybe they were killed together—it wasn’t like Cornelia had really given the Kingdom <em>any </em>information, despite Rodrigue’s demands.</p>
<p>And while Rodrigue was trying the more traditional channels to regain their capital, Felix was searching for a miracle across the territories. Even when fighting bandits in his land and pretending to be a mercenary in any other, his search was constant, endless. From their last correspondence, he'd made it as far as Gaspard territory before the signs led the other way. He was following a trail weaker than a path of breadcrumbs picked apart by birds—but if it eased Felix's guilt and had the slimmest potential of<em> helping</em>, then Sylvain couldn't argue. Not that he put much faith in Felix finding a dead man.</p>
<p>Frankly, Ingrid was probably the only one who was still stable. Her letters were short, sentences unbearably curt and to the point. They practically rotated between 'everything's fine', <em>'</em>we're doing what we must', and 'nothing new to update.' But even Sylvain knew that was a lot of nonsense. Charon had fallen to the Dukedom in the last year, which meant that it was inevitable that they and Fhirdiad would start prodding at Galatea's borders. Between that and a rather brutal winter, it was impossible that they were doing well.</p>
<p>Knowing her, she was bearing the weight of it alone on her shoulders.</p>
<p>Unable to ignore the burning in his lungs, he pulled himself up from the water. Hair clung to his forehead, tickling at his nose and eyelashes. It had gotten long in his travels, though it wasn’t half as troublesome as the wiry hair along his chin, jaw, and lips. He brushed his hand along his jaw, enjoying the scratch on his knuckles. It had been normal in the wilderness—the ladies of the remote villages liked the rugged look—but he was pretty sure it wouldn’t fit in here. Then again, he doubted the girls in Gautier would even see it when there was something so much more attractive pulling them into his orbit. </p>
<p>As the water was now colder than when he’d first entered, he pulled himself out of the tub. Goosebumps prickled along his arms, the hairs shifting in the slight breeze in the room. He sighed, quick to dry off with an unnecessarily scratchy towel. He took longer to dry his hair, ruffling it with his towel as he stepped into his bedroom.</p>
<p>He had to curse himself for not bringing his nightclothes with him. Not that they’d help much against the cold, but it was better than a hasty walk in a towel. But <em>no</em>, he couldn’t bear the thought of his clothes getting wet, and—in his infinite wisdom—had left them on the nightstand on the other end of the room. Still grumbling, he grabbed at the folded pile. </p>
<p>Fingers froze as his eyes slid toward the razor and scissors just beneath the fabric.</p>
<p>Subtle.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>He ran his fingers through the short hairs at the back of his neck. Still-damp hair was no help against the chill in his bones, but drying it was about as pointless for warmth as the cold stew and stale bread that had been brought in for him. To be fair, it was probably a punishment for spending too long lingering in the bath instead of doing more useful things . . . like telling his father how many Srengi he'd killed.</p>
<p>He fell into his chair, nibbling at the crust as he flipped through the piles of letters that had been saved for him. The pile had diminished in the last few years; no one had the time to write in war.</p>
<p>In a few minutes, he had divided the letters up into neat stacks. There was no point wasting his time on the girls he'd flirted with at the Academy; their attention only lingered because Gautier was safe, or because they'd fallen on hard times, or because Gautier certainly had plenty of money in its coffers, or because they thought that <em>Gautier </em>might be desperate for an heir <em>just</em> <em>in case </em>Sylvain died.</p>
<p>Then there were requests for resources internally. Matters that his father didn't see worth his attention. Nobles asking for some more protections, or some more food, or some way to supplement their trade. He could rearrange a few things to keep them happy for now, but ultimately it would never be enough.</p>
<p>After that was one from Felix. There were rumors of a creature tearing Adrestian soldiers apart—ignoring any soldier who was allied with Leicester or the Kingdom. Men were shred to bits like they were made of straw. Maybe it was a demonic beast—but it seemed too much like someone they knew to ignore it. He was going to pursue it, but it would put him closer to Adrestian-controlled lands. Sylvain was to expect the worst if he didn’t hear from Felix again soon.</p>
<p>Next was a small letter from Ingrid. One was the same—just that things were fine and he shouldn't be concerned. Another told him to stop writing so often—things weren't going to change, and certainly he had better things to do. The third went right back to Galatea being fine, doing what they could to account for the winter.</p>
<p>With a sigh, Sylvain placed Ingrid's fourth letter on the 'ignore' pile. What was the point of reading them, if he couldn't even get her to open up? It didn't matter if he teased or flattered or even threatened a visit—it was just the same again and again. He could give up on the endeavor and she'd probably never notice.</p>
<p>But this one was different, unusual. His name on the envelope was written by a shaky hand, ink blotting in awkward places. Ingrid had very distinct handwriting—it was by no means elegant, but it was purposeful, letters clear. The features on this were unusual. If he didn’t recognize the curve of the ‘y’, he’d have thought it was from someone else.</p>
<p>He narrowed his eyes and brought it closer to his face; it looked like she had been trembling while writing.</p>
<p>Swallowing, he ran his thumb between the folds of the envelope. Held properly in his hands now, it felt far bulkier than her usual correspondence. Several pages slid out, their fold so haphazard that it was a miracle they fit into the envelope—even more a miracle that the letter didn't just burst at its seams while being delivered.</p>
<p>He sat up in his chair, fingers brushing over the pages to flatten out the crinkles. With any luck, he’d be able to read it all<em>—</em>though the smudges weren’t promising. </p>
<p>
  <em>'Sylvain, you know I know better than to ask anything of you. But I need your insight. <strike>I don't know </strike>I can't think of anyone else who can help me. Who might see it from a different—albeit unusual—way.'</em>
</p>
<p>He blinked. There was never a time when Sylvain Gautier was the best choice for advice. Asking a rock would be preferred for ninety percent of the populous. Ingrid could only reliably expect to be disappointed.</p>
<p>Besides, there were a ton of people she could talk to. There were the servants in her manor. Or Mercedes or Annette. Or Dorothea—no, bad idea—correspondence across enemy lines was something that Ingrid would never consider.</p>
<p>
  <em>'My father received a messenger last week. At first, they presented themselves as Kingdom men, though they never told us which lord they served. My father, of course, was open to any aid we could get. I worried it might be the Dukedom, taking advantage of our situation.'</em>
</p>
<p>Sylvain chewed on the inside of his cheek, rubbing his face. She was right (of course she was right—was Ingrid ever wrong?). The Kingdom had barely watched over its own people when things were <em>stable</em>. Even then, the nobles only intervened in their neighbors’ conflicts if there was some means of benefit—with few exceptions. Now, without any leadership, there was no way any lord would ever think of looking after their neighbors.</p>
<p>The Dukedom, former members of the Kingdom, would know <em>exactly</em> who was most vulnerable.</p>
<p>He sighed, shifting to the next page. Ingrid's handwriting was shakier here, not as subtle as the first page.</p>
<p>Galatea was invited to join the Dukedom. Their rationale was painfully reasonable: Galatea was close to Fhirdiad—which was now fully occupied by the Dukedom. In the same way, Galatea was also close to other non-Kingdom territories. For the safety of their people, it was only reasonable for them to change sides.</p>
<p>Ingrid elaborated on what they offered—money to fund their people, safe trade routes for their merchants, food to make up for the poor winter, even protection from Adrestia, the Kingdom, and Leicester (should they pick a side). It was clear here that the Dukedom’s game was just a formality, like holding a knife to someone's throat and pretending that they were only having tea. But even Sylvain had to admit that it was well-played.</p>
<p>And the price was simple: loyalty, ensured by Ingrid's marriage to an Adrestian or Dukedom noble.</p>
<p>The ink blotted. <em>'Father is considering it.'</em></p>
<p>His breath caught in his chest. Her father had always been aggressive regarding Ingrid’s eventual marriage, but this was different. It wasn't just marriage to get her people resources; he would tear her away from her friends, her people, her duty. He would let her become a pawn, rip away her knighthood.</p>
<p>
  <em>'Sylvain, I don't know what to do. I know my people need this. I know they are proud members of the Kingdom. And I . . . I would do anything to make sure they're safe. But this—this would be betraying my country. Betraying everything I've ever stood for. Betraying you, Felix, Dimitri . . . I don't know if I can.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>'But I don't know how much longer we can take this. We have not been well. We're low on resources, and our borders are constantly under attack. We don't have the same benefit of distance that Gautier and Fraldarius have. I don't know if we can reliably make it through the year.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>'I don't know what to do.'</em>
</p>
<p>He swallowed, taking his time to absorb her words. Her thoughts were disorganized, scattered, like a tempest in her brain unleashed.</p>
<p>
  <em>'I don't know why I'm telling you this. I don't expect you to help—don't expect you to even be able to. I just . . . wanted someone to know. I wanted someone to know what happened if I disappear or—or if we wind up facing each other on the battlefield.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>'I'm sorry.'</em>
</p>
<p> And that was where it ended. No 'kind regards' or 'sincerely'—not even her signature. It was like she had to have it out of her sight before she changed her mind. Like she was worried that her loyalty would shift again and the letter would find itself ash in a fireplace.</p>
<p>He set the forgotten bread roll back to its plate, the thought of eating now nauseating..</p>
<p>Irritation bubbled beneath his skin. Like much of the nobility, his and Ingrid’s fathers had been adamant regarding marriage and connections, constantly pushing and prodding in the vain hope that their children would cave under the stress. When war struck, Margrave Gautier had eased up considerably on the matter; alliances seemed pointless when the entire noble structure was unstable. . . plus he was probably confident that Sylvain already had a Crest baby somewhere in the world.</p>
<p>Sylvain had hoped that Ingrid would be in a similar position. Not with a Crest child, but he’d hoped that the unstable political environment would make her father see sense. Instead, it seemed to send the man diving headfirst into a terrible decision that would destroy his daughter. And he still seemed to have the nerve to make it appear like a <em>choice</em>.</p>
<p>Sylvain rose from his chair, glaring down at his desk. Footsteps heavy, he stormed to his wardrobe. The wooden doors slammed back against the wall, their contents shoved aside as Sylvain dug through the garments. Galatea wouldn't be as cold as Gautier, but it was still just the start of Spring. There would still be some snow, maybe a cold breeze. With the land unstable, bandits would be more prominent. They would attack anyone with wealth, requiring something more simple and subtle. His fingers paused on some travel clothes that would probably do; he tossed the outfits onto his bed.</p>
<p>He dug into the wardrobe again, fingers pressing into the thick fabric of one of his cloaks. The weight would keep him warm, but its design was problematic. The clasp bore the Gautier Crest, the lines dug deep into the metal. It could draw bandit attention. But, if Ingrid needed a Kingdom presence, then nothing would scream it as loudly as this. And, if she made him leave, the bulk would make a decent pillow on the forest floor.</p>
<p>There was a good chance he’d be kicked out—he knew that. She didn't want his help; her letter had stated as much. Though it seemed more that she didn't expect him to be capable of it—which was just as deep a dent in his pride.</p>
<p>But when did Sylvain Gautier <em>ever</em> stop just because she told him to? He hadn't stopped flirting, and he hadn't stopped being careless. He certainly wasn't going to stop protecting his friends (even if he was wildly out of his depth).</p>
<p>Besides, it was the duty of any knight of Faerghus to save someone in distress. And, while he wasn’t exactly a knight yet, he was close enough. After all, he <em>would </em>have been one, if they actually got to finish their time at the Academy. And that had to count for something.</p>
<p>He dressed quickly, running his fingers through his hair to shake out the last of the water. When he was done, he tucked her letter into his glove. It would be safe there, for the most part. Maybe, if he reread it while resting, he'd realize he was being foolish and overprotective and return home. Unlikely, but maybe.</p>
<p>With a sigh, he slung his travel sack over his shoulder. He hadn't bothered unpacking it, which meant there was still plenty of trail rations, water, and healing items left for use. He'd been stingy about using them while at the border, since it was likely he'd find himself lost or trapped or injured in a way that would make it impossible to hunt for himself. In a situation like that, everything saved could keep him alive one more day.</p>
<p>The rations he had remaining would probably hold him for the journey to Galatea and back, with maybe a day or two of surplus. It would be enough to keep him alive while there, at least to avoid trouble if Count Galatea wanted him poisoned.</p>
<p>But, realistically, getting to Galatea and surviving in it wasn't the problem. It was getting <em>out</em> of Gautier. He knew his father wouldn't allow it. As restrained as the Margrave was with marriage, it was still exceedingly clear that the Crest was valued higher than anything else. It wouldn't surprise Sylvain to be literally chained to his room if he was caught—only allowed out to monitor Sreng or to advance the bloodline.</p>
<p>Sylvain stepped out of his room, movements excessively cautious. Slowly, he shut the door behind him. The click of the latch was barely audible. While his steps down the hall weren't silent—they couldn't be if he wanted to get out within the next week—they were as close as he could get.</p>
<p>His gaze flicked to movement off in the distance. A wisp of red hair, twisting around a nearby corner. Inhaling sharply, he gave chase.</p>
<p>As he rounded the corner, the owner eluded him once more. This time, just the flare of a dark skirt. He sucked in a sharp breath, quickening his pace. This was not good; he knew what his clothes implied. He knew what the satchel's presence <em>said</em>. If he was too slow—no, he couldn't be. He'd have to catch her, get her to stop. Do whatever it took to keep those lips sealed. His journey couldn't be stopped this early.</p>
<p>As he rounded another corner, his eyes caught the briefest shimmer of blue looking back at him. And then they vanished behind his father's office door.</p>
<p>"Damn." He hissed, trying to ignore the chill down his spine. Screw quiet, then. He'd just have to be fast.</p>
<p>So he ran. Without his armor weighing him down, his steps were lighter, faster. He could round the corners with ease, dodge around staff and maids. They tried to call him back, but it was easy to ignore them when he could disappear around another corner.</p>
<p>There was the courtyard. Then the stable. Then Ebony, his dark mare, filling herself on hay.</p>
<p>"Ah, my best girl. My loveliest girl." He cooed, affectionately petting the side of her neck. She huffed at him, nudging at his shoulder. "I know. We just got back, but . . ."</p>
<p>She shook her head, eyeing him as he went for his saddle and bridle. She didn't pull away, so at least he knew that she wasn't going to throw him the first moment she could. He could work with that.</p>
<p>He geared her up, putting his bag in one of the saddlebags. "You like Ingrid better, right? I'm sure she'll be happy to see you. Probably will spoil you rotten."</p>
<p>Ebony didn't perk up at that, not like she usually did whenever he mentioned Ingrid. Instead, her eyes were focused across the stable, gaze intense. He didn't have to look to know. She was really only like this in a few situations: strange territories, battle, and—</p>
<p>"I do not recall giving you permission to leave." Margrave Gautier's voice wasn't loud, but the depth of it echoed in the stable all the same. Sylvain stiffened, preferring to be at the receiving end of a blade over facing his father.</p>
<p>Sylvain swallowed, idly petting Ebony's mane. "You didn't."</p>
<p>"So then," he could hear the gravel shift as the Margrave stepped closer, his boots heavy, "why do I see you dressed to leave?"</p>
<p>Sylvain glanced over his shoulder, watching as his father neared. He wasn't angry—not yet.</p>
<p>There was something in the way the man held himself that always made him seem bigger than Sylvain, even though they stood shoulder to shoulder. Perhaps it was that intense golden gaze—always observing, always calculating. Perhaps it was the way that his lips were always curved downward into a harsh disapproval. Or it was the clothes he draped himself in—a dark thick leather as if he always expected battle. Or maybe the Crest he bore upon his cloak—proudly embroidered in the heavy fabric in his back, and engraved deeply into the silver on his chest. Or it could be the deep scar that trailed across his nose and cheekbones, so much like Miklan's and yet different in a way that made Sylvain shudder.</p>
<p>Margrave Gautier was a man built for battle, and Sylvain was just the boy who played knight in it.</p>
<p>"That's because I am." He said, mouth dry. He couldn't lie to his father—the man would see right through it—but that didn't mean he had to say everything.</p>
<p>Margrave Gautier snorted. "And what would give you the impression you could leave without notifying me?"</p>
<p>Sylvain swallowed. "I assume Count Galatea told you about the situation."</p>
<p>His father raised an eyebrow.</p>
<p>Ok. So he didn't know. Sylvain could work with that. "Ingrid told me. They're having issues with Adrestia and the Dukedom. I want to make sure they're still alright."</p>
<p>"Gautier has no reason to preoccupy itself with the issues of other lands. That is their duty."</p>
<p>"Gautier may not, but Ingrid is my friend. So I do."</p>
<p>That scowl deepened. "The Lance of Ruin will not leave Gautier. Not at a time like this."</p>
<p>"Funny, ‘cuz it won't." Sylvain shrugged, adjusting one of the saddle’s belts. "I'm not <em>bringing</em> the Lance."</p>
<p>Thick fingers dug into his shoulder, whipping Sylvain around. The Margrave's hands shifted into his collar, dragging Sylvain close. His expression wasn't yet furious—still there was that demeanor of calm and control—but it was close.</p>
<p>He shook Sylvain—as if that would shake sense into him. "I will not allow the only Gautier heir to get himself killed in his foolishness."</p>
<p>Sylvain scowled. "Oh, but you'll have him gallivant around Sreng?"</p>
<p>"If you were to die to Sreng, you are not worthy to be heir." The Margrave scowled. "But you are foolish enough to get yourself killed in Faerghus."</p>
<p>Sylvain barely resisted the urge to push the old man away. His shoulders shook with the strain. "If that's the case, then I'd rather die fighting now than let them kill me later."</p>
<p>The Margrave only raised an eyebrow.</p>
<p>"You can't think that they'll just stop with Galatea." He tried to keep his tone level, but all it did was make it sound lifeless and foreign to his own ears. It seemed to draw his father's attention all the same. "They'll keep expanding. And, eventually, they'll come for us."</p>
<p>"Let them come." The Margrave said. But there was a slight edge to his tone. Barely, his grip loosened on Sylvain's collar.</p>
<p>“You can't think that Edelgard will let us live. If we do nothing, we'll have no allies left to help us."</p>
<p>His father said nothing, but still his grip loosened. It was the only chance Sylvain would get.</p>
<p>Swallowing, Sylvain shoved his hands against his father’s shoulders, ignoring the way the seams of his collar snapped with the strain. His father was strong, but his grip was poor—and the moment his fingers lost hold on the fabric, Sylvain darted away. He dodged around his father's grasping hands, jumping up to Ebony. With a click of his tongue, she galloped away.</p>
<p>In little time, he was far enough from the manor that he could no longer hear the enraged shouts of his father.</p>
<p>The Margrave could yell all he liked. He could follow Sylvain and drag him home, lock him in his room. He could lash Sylvain into submission. But not before he reached Galatea.</p>
<p>Sylvain would pay whatever price, whatever punishment, if it meant he might spare Ingrid from more suffering.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was funny, when Sylvain thought about it. Galatea's climate was so much different than Gautier, almost to the point that it could have been another country. While Gautier was almost perpetually an icy tundra, with little charm to redeem it, Galatea seemed to have some semblance of seasons. Small sprigs of grass were already peeking up through the snow. Some trees were beginning to regrow their leaves. In the distance, he could see the start of game returning to the land, their shadows flickering past in the distant tree line. The air was just barely cold enough for him to see his breath.</p>
<p>He let his horse fall into a trot. He hadn't been caught by now, which meant either his father was biding his time—knowing he would catch up eventually at Galatea—or he had given up—for Sylvain to suffer the consequences later. At the very least, it meant Sylvain had a couple days to accomplish what he needed to.</p>
<p>Now managing that was the challenge. He'd been turning it over his mind again and again, but still he was uneasy. Sure, the general theory was solid—flawless, even. But the details . . . well, the details were where it could crumble entirely.</p>
<p>Go there, convince Ingrid to stay with the Kingdom, handle the Andrestians. Seemed simple enough.</p>
<p>But it was <em>Sylvain</em>. If anyone could screw it up, it would be him. He was notorious for his insincerity, and his reputation was certainly far worse in Ingrid's mind. She’d imagine he was there to woo maidens heartbroken over their taken lovers. And the nobles would think he was there to serve as an irritation, or maybe a distraction. It was unlikely that they’d regard the philanderer as a threat, let alone competition.</p>
<p>A strange cacophony drew his attention from just beyond the bend in the road. Sylvain narrowed his eyes, adjusting Ebony’s direction slightly. If it was the Dukedom or Adrestia, it would be stupid to get involved before Ingrid even knew he was here. They would kill him, dump his body in a narrow grave just off the road, and no one would know any better.</p>
<p>He shook his head, hoping to dislodge the thought. It would be wrong to say he was a knight, and not <em>look </em>to see if he could help. Pressing his lips together, he urged Ebony along at a slow pace.</p>
<p>Just beyond the bend was nothing aligned with either Adrestia or the Dukedom. It was something he had become all too familiar with: bandits, spurred on by conflict, encouraged by the disarray in their homeland.  Hurting, stealing, killing . . . all because they knew the people who <em>should </em>be protecting this land could not.</p>
<p>Six foul men shoved at their targets, threatening with words and blade alike. They snatched at the goods on the carriage, annoyance spurred on as their victims struggled to delay the theft. But it was futile; unarmed people were no match for experienced bandits. And it was just as clear that the bandits’ patience was waning.</p>
<p>Sylvain's lip curled. He reached behind him, fingers wrapping around the iron lance he kept at his side. It paled in comparison to the Lance of Ruin, but he would take additional effort over drawing unwanted attention.</p>
<p>"Looks like quite the dance here." With a smile plastered on his face, Sylvain drew Ebony closer. "How about a partner who can keep up?"</p>
<p>A half dozen heads turned to him, watching as he approached. One of them, big and brawny and definitely the best equipped, sneered. His eyes flicked to the lance in Sylvain's hand, then back to Sylvain. "If you value your life, you'll keep moving."</p>
<p>Sylvain's smile widened. They could play threatening all they liked. He knew what it looked like when someone had faith in their strength; he also knew what it looked like when someone was just bluffing. He shrugged. “Yeah, can’t really do that.”</p>
<p>Understanding that Sylvain was a threat that was too foolish to leave, they charged.</p>
<p>Sylvain had never really imagined that he’d spend most of his time fighting after the Academy. Sure, he knew he’d <em>have </em>to occasionally—such was the legacy of Gautier—but he’d never expected it to come naturally. Perhaps it was because fighting at the border had been a true challenge, mandating he fight seriously or die. After all, Sreng’s battle tactics were inspiring, bolstered by the way their men fought like it was their last day on earth. They never seemed desperate; instead, they fought with devotion Sylvain admired, but could never emulate.</p>
<p>In comparison, these bandits barely had the challenge of training dummies. Sylvain tore through them just as easily.</p>
<p>Sighing, he withdrew his lance from the last man, glancing across the impromptu battlefield. It was too easy; he hadn't even strained himself enough to change his breathing even slightly. Well, at least he didn't have to worry about getting randomly killed out here. Probably. </p>
<p>He glanced down with a frown, minor cuts across his arms and hands stinging in a way that demanded his attention. They weren’t bad; minor healing spells would handle it fine, though that wouldn't do much for his coat.</p>
<p>His lip twitched. He'd have to remember that he wasn't in his armor anymore. He couldn’t stay so careless.</p>
<p>He hopped off of Ebony, looking her over as she nudged at his shoulder. He didn’t see anything wrong—at the very least he was cognizant enough to keep her safe. He'd never forgive himself if something happened to the only girl in the world who would reliably stand by him no matter what.</p>
<p>He glanced over at the people, still reloading their cart with the items that had been snatched off. Their goods were valuable, but not in the pointlessly material way—their stock was mostly grains, potatoes, some loads of wool—the cart must have come from the nearby farms, its couriers aiming to sell in town.</p>
<p>Cargo like this was more valuable than gold now, with the pressures of war squeezing around them.</p>
<p>He wasn’t oblivious to them staring, watching him. Still loading, sure, but his presence slowed their progress. They probably thought he was as likely to rob them as the bandits. It wasn't unheard of for bandits to steal from other bandits. To play pretend just so they could claim the prize. To stab their rescues in the back and claim everything for themselves.</p>
<p>Sylvain bent to pick up a coin purse that had fallen from the bandit's hands. From the make of the thing, Sylvain was pretty sure it wasn't the bandit’s. No, they liked to keep the fancier ones. Something simple like this would be an insult to their skill as a thief.</p>
<p>"You all alright?" He asked, offering the bag to the eldest in the group: a woman who looked just as withered as leather left too long in the sun, white hair plaited into a braid over her shoulder. Her gaze was piercing—a bright blue that seemed to see right through him.</p>
<p>"Take what you want and leave, stranger." Her tone was firm, cold in a way that rivalled the ice of Gautier.</p>
<p>"Um, actually, I was trying to—"</p>
<p>"We don't want any more trouble. Today has been enough."</p>
<p>"I—"</p>
<p>His mouth snapped shut at the sound of pegasus wings. Either there was a new type of bandit, or he was about to get killed by one of Galatea's guard, or—</p>
<p>"Sylvain?!" The voice—clipped in a weird mixture of surprise and annoyance—was music to his ears. Hooves landed hard on the road, clicking against the small stones and pebbles.</p>
<p>He glanced over his shoulder, a smile on his face. Even he couldn't tell if it was sincere or not. "Looking good, Ingrid."</p>
<p>She brought her pegasus, Berries, closer—a beautiful white mare who was undoubtedly the best-treated creature in the whole Kingdom. Though she’d never admit it, the mare was hardly as whimsical as its name —that is, toward anyone but her. "What are you doing here?"</p>
<p>He shrugged. "Taking a stroll."</p>
<p>"In Galatea."</p>
<p>"Mmyep." He felt his smile widen just a fraction, spurred on by her deepening scowl.</p>
<p>Ingrid rolled her eyes, dismounting with an effortlessness only she could master. With a rather impressive glare, she stepped forward, holding out her hand.</p>
<p>"Holding hands in public?" He teased. "How forward."</p>
<p>Her lip twitched. "The purse, Sylvain."</p>
<p>He eagerly dropped the bag into her hand. It wasn't weighty, but he was happy to not have to worry about it. Instead, he rested his hands behind his head and watched as Ingrid went to speak to the caravan.</p>
<p>His smile slipped a bit, realization dawning upon him. At first, he’d noticed her hair—clipped short with a pretty braid keeping it out of her face. That didn’t really surprise him; it would only be a matter of time before the long hair had become a burden in war. Rapidly after that, though, he’d noticed that she was missing her armor. It was weird, sure, but not surprising. He didn’t doubt that her father had hidden it away, banning her from conflict. He’d say it was unseemly for a lady, or something to that effect. It was probably a punishment for her cutting her hair.  </p>
<p>No, the real surprise was in how clearly the times had hurt her. She was thinner now, but it wasn't the slimming of adulthood. No, certainly she had (as she always had) tried to take on the same misery that her people had to endure. Smaller portions, scrappier meals. Nothing like the food at the Academy that came in endless abundance. He could see it in the way her waist dipped in, in the slimness of her arms, in the way her face seemed just a touch slimmer than was healthy.</p>
<p>Just as noticeable were the little patches of color under her eyes. Nothing so prominent for common notice, but he could tell. He knew what it looked like when it was more exhausting to sleep. When one could not rest with any confidence of waking again.</p>
<p>"Care to explain yourself?" Ingrid's tone was clipped as she stormed back up to him.</p>
<p>Sylvain's hands raised defensively on sheer instinct. "Hey, I didn't start it, I was just—"</p>
<p>Ingrid raised a hand and Sylvain's mouth snapped shut. Her fingers pinched at the bridge of her nose, like she was already plagued by the world's worst headache. Considering that Sylvain was here, she probably was. "I don't have the patience for your usual nonsense."</p>
<p>"Ingrid, I—"</p>
<p>"The truth," there was an edge to her tone that made him wince, "<em>please</em>."</p>
<p>Sylvain wasn't really good at telling the truth. Being honest left one open to true vulnerability, which was terrifying. </p>
<p>But this was Ingrid. Ingrid who was tired. Ingrid who was alone.</p>
<p>He sighed, running a hand through his hair. He could be honest, just for a minute, just for her. He just couldn't maintain eye contact while he did so.</p>
<p>"I, um," He reached into his glove, pulling out the letter. "I thought you might need some help."</p>
<p>Ingrid blinked, fingers a touch uncertain as she reached for the envelope. It might as well have been a bird's wings fluttering against his fingers with how abruptly she took it, more potent in speed than in force.</p>
<p>He wasn't sure if it was the cold or the letter that brought pink to her cheeks, but he appreciated it all the same. It made her eyes practically glow, emphasizing a spirit in her that he'd worried had been snuffed completely.</p>
<p>"You came here for this?" Her voice was soft, uneasy.</p>
<p>Yes. Sylvain had no problem suffering alone. No problem dealing with the frigid misery that was Gautier. No problem dealing with the constant suitors and internal machinations that so often drove this ridiculous pandering that they called politics. No problem running to the borders for just a chance of bringing his friends some peace. No problem taking any hits meant for them. So, yes. Yes a hundred times over.</p>
<p>"You know me," he shrugged, smiling that smile he <em>knew </em>she hated, "can't resist saving a damsel in distress."</p>
<p>He tensed, already feeling the sting of her slap, but it didn't come. Instead, Ingrid's shoulders hunched, fingers clenching into the small pile of papers. The papers crinkled as she trembled. They'd tear at this rate—or maybe just disintegrate.</p>
<p>"H-hey," he reached over, placing his hand on hers, "I was just kidding. If anyone is the damsel between us, it’s me."</p>
<p>"I . . ." her voice cracked, and she swallowed. With more softness than he had known her capable of, she placed one of her hands on his. She held him there, grip persistent but not painful. "I don't know what to do."</p>
<p>His mouth felt dry, smile slipping. Watching her like this made his chest ache, made every bone in his body feel like it was just on the edge of exploding. He had to do something—but he wasn’t even sure anything he could do would help. He was powerless and over-energized all in the same breath.</p>
<p>He'd felt this way before: after Glenn's funeral. Back then, Sylvain could so easily sneak out of the Gautier estate, hide away in Galatea. He'd stayed hidden for a week that time, watching as every day Ingrid fell more and more into despair. She couldn't eat or talk—couldn't even bring herself to step into the sunlight. As Glenn had taught her to ride, her favorite pastime became a nightmare.</p>
<p>Sylvain had watched and he'd waited. Waited for the moment where she would accept a hand reaching for her. For when she’d see someone willing to go through hell to pull her out of the darkness.</p>
<p>Until then, he cared for her horse as best he could. It was exhausting, but he had to. Even if everything else eventually became fine, he knew her—knew that dark clouds would return if her horse suffered from her negligence. He refused to let that happen.</p>
<p>It had been a mere chance that he'd stumbled upon her one night. He’d stayed up late, cleaning the stables until he could barely keep his eyes open. As he walked by, he saw her standing in an open field not far away. She'd been looking up at the stars, eyes red and puffy, cheeks very nearly stained by tears. She was in a thin dress that offered no help against the cold.</p>
<p>He’d walked up, wordlessly giving her his coat. Carefully, he’d wrapped an arm around her. He'd let her cry into his shirt until the sun peeked just above the mountains, staining the sky in a vibrant red. They hadn't gone home until his shirt was soaked through and he was shuddering, fingertips stiff and lips chapped and cracked. But it was also the first morning she ate with someone else there.</p>
<p>Now, watching her still staring at their hands, he knew he just needed to wait for the right moment again.</p>
<p>“Hey,” he patted her hand, “let’s get you back home before someone realizes you’re missing.”</p>
<p>She nodded, expression solemn.</p>
<p>“Think there’s a place for Ebony to rest?” He leaned in close, smiling, like a secret shared between them. “I think she’ll throw me if I make her go another day.”</p>
<p>Ingrid’s lip quirked. She sighed and shook her head, clicking her tongue for Berries. “You’re lucky she hasn’t already thrown you.” Softly, she ran her fingers over her pegasus’ muzzle. “Maybe it would knock some sense into you.”</p>
<p>He laughed. “Doubt it.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The town around the Galatea estate was already bustling with the activities of the day. The market was surprisingly busy, no doubt enjoying the business of the visiting nobles. It was easy to tell the difference between the villagers, the farmers, and the noble’s servants. The servants, always the better buyers, continually stole the attention of the sellers, their bags of gold a promise too tantalizing to ignore for the sake of manners.</p>
<p> Of course, it was those same privileged people who sneered at the meager goods in front of them. They had probably expected the same glory as Fhirdiad’s markets—but Galatea hadn’t had such fortune or resources for at least a decade. But it was scraps or nothing, and it seemed they would tolerate the scraps—for now.</p>
<p>Sylvain noted, too, that the favoritism did not go unnoticed by the inhabitants. Twice he and Ingrid barely dodged around an impending fistfight, and once he was very nearly dragged into one. Those who worked for their country clearly resented those who hoped to buy it from under their noses.</p>
<p>If Count Galatea wasn’t careful—and if he let this drag on much longer—he would no longer have a position to bargain with. </p>
<p>He glanced ahead to the manor not far away. The wall around its border was tall, but it crumbled in too many places to serve as any means of protection. Moss crawled up the sides, emphasizing every crack in the stonework. While the manor itself looked like it was still sturdy, it would only take a couple more bad winters to cave the roof and require repair they couldn’t afford.</p>
<p>“I think we should go to the stables.” Ingrid said, voice low as she stepped through the gate at the estate’s entrance. “To talk.”</p>
<p>“Think the maids will kick me out?” Sylvain’s lip quirked, teasing thick in his tone. “I did piss them off last time, huh?”</p>
<p>“Sylvain—”</p>
<p>“Frankly, I think they’d be offended if I <em>didn’t</em>. They’d think I wasn’t paying attention to them anymore.”</p>
<p>Ingrid’s arm shot up, grabbing him by the collar and pulling him down to her eye level. “Listen to me. I don’t want anyone to hurt you.”</p>
<p>Sylvain blinked.</p>
<p>“Just . . .” She sighed, her fingers slowly uncurling from the fabric. “At least there . . . it’s safe.” She let go, turning away from him to lead Berries along the wall, toward the small grove of trees that shaded the stables.</p>
<p>Sylvain followed, head dipped low and lips pressed together. He didn’t have to ask who or why. Even the most well-meaning of her suitors had a stake in this. Even if they had good intentions, there was no guarantee their followers shared such noble purposes. </p>
<p>As he stepped up to the stable, he noted that it looked far better than anything else in Galatea. The structure was well-tended to, fresh boards in the side and the wood sealed. No doubt it was Ingrid’s influence. </p>
<p>Bringing Ebony inside, he realized it looked even better in here. The area was insulated well from the cold, fresh hay scattered around to serve as further insulation. All of the stalls looked to be in a good state, too. And clearly the horses were well-cared for (many of them looking fairly relaxed even at his intrusion).  </p>
<p>Ingrid opened one of the stall doors, motioning to it with the slightest inclination of her head. Sylvain guided Ebony in, smiling at how easily she settled herself. With any luck, she’d get to rest here in peace for a while.</p>
<p>“I’ll be back.” Ingrid said, words sudden and rushed.</p>
<p>“Ah, wait—” Sylvain turned, but it was already too late. Ingrid was already far out of sight and well out of earshot. He groaned.</p>
<p>Ebony nudged at his shoulder, snorting at him. It was affectionate, he knew, but impatient.</p>
<p>“So pushy.” Chuckling, Sylvain rubbed her side, whispering praises and pressing small kisses to her neck before turning his attention to the buckles of the saddle. He was quick in removing it and the brindle, rubbing at the areas where the leather might be uncomfortable. </p>
<p>Ebony nudged him again, making him smile. He stepped out of the stall, grabbing hay and water for her to take her fill of. He wasn’t surprised to see her attention shift immediately to the goods as he set them out for her.</p>
<p>The journey hadn’t been eventful, but it had been rough. Two long rides—one right after another—wasn’t easy, even for a war horse. Even so, she took it without complaint. She rested beside him and his little fire on the cold trail, making small satisfied huffs as he ran his fingers through her mane. She didn’t protest when he rose and started travelling before the sun rose. She was always there for him—even if she was currently ignoring him for her meal.</p>
<p>“You really are my best girl, huh?” He hummed, stepping out of the stall and closing the gate behind him.</p>
<p>It was as if the click of the latch loosed all the exhaustion he’d been restraining. His legs crumpled beneath him, forcing him to the floor. He groaned, pressing his back against the gate. The ride hadn’t exactly been easy for him, either. He’d rode until his body hurt, managed only an hour or two of sleep, and fought through the growing paranoia that he was already too late.</p>
<p>He pulled his knees to his chest. It seemed, though, that he’d worried too much. While Ingrid was worn and exhausted, it wasn’t like her life was in immediate danger. She was moving relatively freely in Galatea, meaning no one was stalking her every moment or threatening to throw her over their shoulder and steal her away.</p>
<p>He dropped his head, letting his forehead rest against his knees. He’d been foolish. There was no guarantee that he wasn’t making her situation worse. Maybe he’d hastened the whole process—ruining any stalling that Ingrid could have managed thus far.   </p>
<p>Fingers ran through his hair, slender and gentle. They combed through the building knots, nails gently brushing against his scalp. He almost could fall asleep like this.</p>
<p>“Mm,” Sylvain opened an eye, glancing up at Ingrid, “that feels nice.”</p>
<p>“It’s shorter now, isn’t it?” She smiled, voice soft and kind as she pulled her hand away. Her head tilted slightly. “Were you sleeping?”</p>
<p>“No, not yet anyway.” He rubbed his eyes, forcing himself to sit upright. As soon as he did, though, he could make out the smell of tea, warm pastry, and meat. His stomach grumbled. “Though I’m not opposed to breakfast.”</p>
<p>Ingrid laughed, shaking her head as she sat in front of him. “I thought that might be the case.” She shifted, tucking her legs beneath her as she set a few items between them. He gaped at the spread: a plate with two steaming meat buns, two teacups, and a teapot still steeping tea. </p>
<p>He reached over, taking the bun in his hand. It was temperate, meaning it had been a leftover scavenged from an earlier breakfast. The dough was still pleasant, though, not yet soggy from the steam. Even if it had been, though, he was hungry enough where he couldn’t be picky.  </p>
<p>Sylvain plucked at the dough, letting the buttery flavor linger on his tongue. “I take it we <em>aren’t</em> about to be attacked by your father’s men, then?”</p>
<p>She shook her head. “No. The only thing he doesn’t question me about is this place.”</p>
<p>Sylvain raised an eyebrow. “So I’m guessing—”</p>
<p>“He doesn’t know you’re here.”</p>
<p>A part of him should be insulted. It wasn’t like a Gautier to skulk around. Their presence was supposed to attract attention, inspire talk—though normally it was supposed to be with awe, not whatever flavor of attention Sylvain attracted for the day.</p>
<p>Realistically, this was for the best. If Count Galatea was actually considering this arrangement, there was no guarantee that <em>his </em>response wouldn’t be hostile. It still felt weird, though, to be forced to hide in an estate he’d been to dozens of times.</p>
<p>He took a full bite of his bun to keep himself from saying something stupid. Something about it made him pause. Not the meal in general—his stomach was practically begging for him to gobble it down. And it wasn’t the meat—he could vaguely recognize it in texture and flavor. No, it was something about the sauce that soaked into the bun, thick and spicy on his tongue. He’d had it once before, but he couldn’t remember where. Or when.</p>
<p>“Hey, what’s in this?” He asked, licking his lips. “I mean, aside from the obvious. I can’t place—”</p>
<p>“The spices are Adrestian.” Ingrid cut in, not looking at him as she poured the tea.</p>
<p>“Huh.” Sylvain took another bite. Even when it wasn’t wartime, it was hard to get Adrestian supplies. It was partially because their spices tended to be a blend of other foreign ones—imports from Dagda and Brigid and who knew where else. It was often expensive to bring them into Faerghus, and so they were  only utilized for important occasions. For that reason, even the minor lords rarely got their hands on it. “Didn’t think your father fancied it much.”</p>
<p>“He doesn’t. The Dukedom brought it.”</p>
<p>It took all the willpower he had to keep the bun in his hand, afraid he might drop it to the floor. The focus prevented him from keeping his mouth shut, jaw dropping. His mouth felt dry in a way that made it hard to speak. “You didn’t—”</p>
<p>“No.” Her tone was firm in a way that made Sylvain sit straighter. No doubt some of her suitors thought it was an appropriate price, too. As if realizing herself, she looked away. “This was just . . . they called it a peace offering. So they could stay without the Kingdom seeing it as an invasion, I suppose.” She sighed, passing him one of the teacups.</p>
<p>“They made it out as ‘just a taste’, huh?” Sylvain asked, voice low. He brought the cup to his lips, blowing lightly against the steam.</p>
<p>She nodded, staring at her bun like it could show her a clear path. “It’s just . . . a portion of what they have to offer Galatea.”</p>
<p>Sylvain swallowed. He didn’t know what to say to that. Anything he could say would sound like empty platitudes. Anything he asked would be nothing more than a thorn beneath the skin.</p>
<p>And it wasn’t like he had to ask how she was holding up. He knew. It was obvious enough in the way she picked at the dough, doing less damage than even the smallest swallow in Spring. Her tea was left untouched, rapidly losing heat.</p>
<p>“Hey, Ingrid,” he tilted his head to catch her gaze, “am I making it worse for you by being here?”</p>
<p>She blinked, gaze slowly shifting up to meet his. “I don’t know.”</p>
<p>“Do you want me to leave?”</p>
<p>“I don’t know.”</p>
<p>He pressed his lips together. “You would only have to say and—”</p>
<p>“Sylvain,” She rubbed her face, voice strained, “I don’t even know why I <em>sent</em> you that letter.” Her cheeks flushed, eyes starting to shimmer with threatening tears. “I thought you wouldn’t read it and I didn’t think you’d actually come and I—I just needed to get it out. I needed to think that <em>someone </em>was listening and—”</p>
<p>Sylvain put his hand on her knee, hoping that the contact might ground her. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay. I was worried.”</p>
<p>Her eyes widened, the color on her cheeks darkening.</p>
<p>He could feel it reflect on his own. “I-I mean, it would be a massive detriment to the Kingdom to lose the most beautiful flower we have, and—”</p>
<p>“<em>Seriously</em>?” Her tone was harsh, but Sylvain could still hear the small laugh behind it. He didn’t care if it was because he was infuriating, or if it was a good joke, or if he had embarrassed her with the flattery; it made the edge of her lips tip to the hint of a smile, so he’d take it.</p>
<p>He cleared his throat. “I did mean it, though.”</p>
<p>Her lips parted, eyebrows scrunched together.</p>
<p>Sylvain looked away, unable to take that wide, innocent expression. It was so unfair when she was absolutely clueless about how it made her look.  “If you want me to go, I will.”</p>
<p>“I . . .” She played with the bun in her hands, looking at it thoughtfully. “If you stayed, then at least I’d have someone on my side. But you can’t.”</p>
<p>“Why not?”</p>
<p>She rolled her eyes. “There’s a reason we’re in a stable right now, Sylvain.”</p>
<p>“Yeah,” he sighed, returning his attention back to his tea, “guess you’re right.”</p>
<p>He sighed into the cup, taking his time to finish its contents. The comfort of its warmth was gone now, but at least the flavor held something soothing in it. Maybe it was because he knew Ingrid didn’t even like Bergamot, and certainly no one in her family did. Which meant that it was here for him . . .or maybe one of her suitors.</p>
<p>But he’d like to think it was here for him.</p>
<p>He finished off the bun, licking off the lingering crumbs and butter with the tip of his tongue. His gaze flicked up, only to see Ingrid staring at him. It wasn’t quite a glare, but it was close.</p>
<p>“What?” He said, voice light and teasing. “We’re in a stable.”</p>
<p>She blinked, the color returning to her cheeks. Once again, her attention returned to her meal—which still looked barely picked at.</p>
<p>He shrugged. “For instance, I couldn’t judge you if you shoved that whole thing in your mouth.”</p>
<p>Ingrid scoffed. “I still have my manners.”</p>
<p>“Who would care?” He said, his smile lax as she fully glared at him. “The horses?”</p>
<p>“You really never change.” She huffed, though it didn’t seem half as exasperated as it usually was.</p>
<p>He could work with that. “I try not to.”</p>
<p>She watched him, her expression serious. Like she was waiting for him to do something—he just couldn’t place what. So he kept smiling, reaching his arm up to pet Ebony as the mare nibbled at his hair.</p>
<p>Slowly, Ingrid’s shoulders began to relax. Her attention shifted down to her now-cold meal. He expected her to take it away; she was never one to waste food, but there were other ways to make sure it didn’t go to waste. Instead, she began to eat in earnest. Her bites were still polite and reserved, but at least they were normal-sized. At least she was actually <em>eating</em>.  </p>
<p>Sylvain leaned back, still petting Ebony. It was frustrating, knowing that this had burdened Ingrid enough where she didn’t want to eat. It angered him that no one here had offered to be her ally, that no one had offered her even the slightest reprieve in this mess that she’d been dragged into. He wanted to protect her—as he wanted to protect all his friends, really. She was just the only one he <em>could</em> . . .</p>
<p>. . . or at least that he could try to.</p>
<p>If he couldn’t protect her from this marriage, at least he could be the hand that kept her from falling into a chasm of hopelessness. He would hold onto her until he could save her, or until they both fell in.</p>
<p>The problem was <em>how</em>. If he came with any sort of aggressive disposition, the Dukedom and Adrestia would see it as a threat. He’d invite war to Ingrid’s land, becoming another stress that she couldn’t endure.</p>
<p>Whatever he did, it had to be clever. A way to weasel himself in here, to have an excuse to stay by her side. Something that would make his presence expected but non threatening.</p>
<p>“Here’s a thought.” He said, nudging Ebony’s head away from his. The mare huffed at him, turning away in her cute emulation of a pout. “What if I say the Kingdom sent me?”</p>
<p>Ingrid scowled over her teacup. “How is that—”</p>
<p>“No, not as like a threat.” He rubbed the back of his neck, thinking. “Everyone knows the Kingdom doesn’t have any power to make people stay. <em>But</em> why wouldn’t they send someone? Just to make sure these arrangements aren’t coercion, or threats, or anything like that. We can’t make Galatea stay, but we can make sure you’re not being assaulted.”</p>
<p>Ingrid hummed thoughtfully, taking another sip of her tea. Her face scrunched as a thought rolled in her mind. “Why you, then?”</p>
<p>“Why <em>not </em>me?” Sylvain asked, grinning. “Compared to everyone else, I’m expendable.”</p>
<p>Ingrid’s expression dropped, lips parting to argue.</p>
<p>But Sylvain interrupted. He was <em>certain </em>that this was solid. She wouldn’t argue if he could just explain it right. “No, no, listen. I’m notorious, right? Everything you scold me about—lazy, foolish, ceaselessly flirtatious—this is stuff everyone knows, <em>especially</em> the Dukedom. If the Kingdom is going to send anyone to scout the situation, it would be me. Because I’m the smallest threat, and the smallest loss.” He tapped his fingertips on his knee. “<em>And</em>, if your father is any bit uncertain about all this, he’ll still think the Kingdom is looking out for him.”</p>
<p>Ingrid opened her mouth, but was quick to close it. Slowly, she brought her hand to her chin, knuckle tapping there. Her eyes shifted as if tracing invisible words, lips following the motion. “Okay.” She said, after long deliberation. “Okay. But . . . why would <em>you </em>want to do this?”</p>
<p>Sylvain hummed, bringing his knees closer to his chest. “Wanting to look out for an old friend?”</p>
<p>She stared at him.</p>
<p>“Believe it or not, I <em>do </em>care what happens to you. And, well, if you do have to get married, I just want it to be to someone who’s less a waste of space than me.”</p>
<p>“My father will think <em>you’re </em>trying to marry me—you know that, right?”</p>
<p>He waved a hand to dismiss the thought. “Hardly. Count Galatea knows me pretty well. I’m useless for the whole marriage thing.”</p>
<p>Ingrid chewed at her lip, finger running over the edge of her cup. “Well, I suppose it would be better than having to hide you.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Sylvain had a lot of experience when it came to standing in front of nobility. Perhaps it was a matter of practice; he was always in trouble for flirting with noble daughters, or blamed for missing things, or scolded for truancy to important events. Perhaps it was because he was often standing as the target of his father’s glare, the victim of his ire; no noble in the continent could even compare to <em>that</em> man.</p>
<p>So when it came to standing in front of Count Galatea and a half dozen of his guests, Sylvain was particularly unfazed. He played both the noble son and the slacker—danced on the thin line between the two. His smile was relaxed, his head tilted in just the right way to look cocky—in contract, his shoulders were held straight, hands properly folded behind his back.</p>
<p>“Why are you here, Sylvain?” Count Galatea said, tone edged just with a taste of panic. “I sent no summons to Gautier.”</p>
<p>It was admittedly difficult to keep his smile level. Count Galatea held himself like the wealthiest noble in the Kingdom, not a man in charge of suffering people and resources drying out. No doubt he was bolstered by the men who stood around him. Some of them Sylvain recognized, even if they were dressed in the elegance of finer fabrics and Adrestian colors; some of them had once been suffering, and were no doubt once victims of the same plot as Count Galatea. It was probably why the man had lowered his guard, had allowed them to whisper nonsense into his ears.</p>
<p>When the war ended, Sylvain was certain that it would all be pulled from them, regardless of who won. Even he knew Edelgard didn’t care for vultures.</p>
<p>Sylvain shrugged. “We got word that there was an invading force. Margrave Gautier found the numbers small for an invasion, so he sent me to take a look.”</p>
<p>“As you can see,” one of the men, said with a sneer on his face, “it’s not an invasion. Your father has nothing to concern himself with.”</p>
<p>Sylvain recognized him as a lesser noble of Gideon territory. His daughter had been cute, though not more than a week’s worth of entertainment. Her brother, though, had taken great offense that Sylvain had no desire to marry her. That brother was only a couple years older than Sylvain and just as ambitious as his father. So there was no doubt that brother was skulking around Galatea land, seeking to persuade his potential bride.</p>
<p>“Well, I’m glad it’s not an invasion. I’m sure the Dukedom would be embarrassed to lose to Ingrid.” He reveled in the heat of their glares, but at least Count Galatea didn’t seem to wholly disagree with the notion. Even he wasn’t foolish enough to ignore the talent of his daughter, even if he minimized it.</p>
<p>The noble from Gideon sneered. “With that confirmed, you may leave.”</p>
<p>“Well, I’m not saying I’m completely relieved.” Sylvain tilted his head, taking in the rest of his room. Even as Count Galatea surrounded himself with Dukedom men and the lesser nobles of Adrestia, his council lingered in the back of the room. They would have to be convinced, too, for these intruders to fully get their way.</p>
<p>The fact that they were still here, though, meant that even Count Galatea hadn’t been fully convinced.</p>
<p>Count Galatea tapped his fingers on his desk. “Get on with it, Sylvain.”</p>
<p>“My father sent me to make sure you were safe.” Sylvain mused. “And, yeah, Galatea’s not a battlefront. But I’m not convinced there’s no coercion at play. I’d never go so far as to <em>accuse</em> our former allies, but Adrestia is certainly known for it. That’s how a Dukedom came to be in the first place, isn’t it?”</p>
<p><em>That</em> got the council’s attention. Their attention shifted from their increasingly-squirming lord, centering on Sylvain.</p>
<p>“If Galatea wishes to leave,” he continued, keeping his tone level, “then I have no army to stop you. But if this is forceful in any way—overtly or not—I will gladly fight for my countrymen.”</p>
<p>The nobles looked more irritated than fearful. But that was fine. Sylvain wasn’t the threat, it was—</p>
<p>“Sir Gautier,” one of the councilmen spoke up, expression tense, “does the Margrave approve of this . . . course of action?”</p>
<p>Sylvain smiled. “We don’t have many territories left in the Kingdom. The way we see it, the least we can do is protect those loyal enough to stay.” He shrugged, voice lilting into something careless and nonchalant. “Well, that’s how <em>I’d </em>put it. You know my father, though. If someone’s trying some violent or backhanded means to get our allies, then it’s only a matter of time before they try it on Gautier, too.”</p>
<p>Count Galatea hummed a poor imitation of a laugh. “Ah, yes, your father hates being inconvenienced.”</p>
<p>“No,” Sylvain’s smile soured, “he hates being <em>insulted</em>.”</p>
<p>That was all his father would really care about in the end. Any invaders’ saving grace lingered only in his father’s duty to the Gautier legacy. But that could easily change if Adrestia or the Dukedom got overconfident--if they thought that all nobles were as desperate as Count Galatea. And Margrave Gautier would be infuriated for even the implication of a comparison. If spurred on enough, he would leave Gautier, and he could decimate whole armies with the Lance of Ruin.</p>
<p>The Dukedom men knew the threat—knew that it would be disastrous to fight the Margrave. But they didn’t know that his father wouldn’t pay this any mind until the Empire and its cronies were at his doorstop. They didn’t know that he underestimated them so drastically compared to how he saw Sreng.</p>
<p>They didn’t know. And Sylvain would never let them.</p>
<p>“A week.” Count Galatea said, falling into his chair. He didn’t look half as mad as Sylvain expected; he expected the man to be furious at being cowed once more into Gautier’s whims. “You have a week to make your observations.”</p>
<p>Sylvain smiled. “I’ll be on my best behavior, sir.”</p>
<p>Count Galatea smiled in a way that sent a shiver down Sylvain’s spine. “I doubt it.”</p>
<p>It was more chilling, Sylvain realized, when the rest of them were smiling too. “Don’t trust me, sir?”</p>
<p>“Not at all, Sylvain.” The Count’s smile grew. “After all, I’m afraid many of these nobles brought their lovely daughters as well to accompany them.”</p>
<p>Sylvain’s lip twitched. He slid into a grin to cover the slip. “Oh, I’ll be delighted to meet them.”</p>
<p>“I’m sure you will.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>With an exhausted sigh, he fell onto the bed. The plush mattress was heavenly, pressing against every sore muscle in his body. The blankets were soft and warm, like an embrace just waiting to happen. He wanted to wrap himself in it and sleep forever.</p>
<p>Ingrid’s voice—because of <em>course </em>it was Ingrid—pulled him from his reverie. “Why am I not surprised you’d be interested in the girls?”</p>
<p>He groaned, turning his head just enough to see her in the doorway. The light framed her features, making the stray hairs on her braid crown glow like a halo. He couldn’t quite make out her expression, but he knew it by heart. “Why am I not surprised you were eavesdropping?”</p>
<p>She stepped in, eyes falling over the room. He knew she was looking for a mess, any evidence of the disaster he was certainly bringing to Galatea. It was fun, disappointing her in such an innocent way. “I wanted to make sure you weren’t getting yourself killed.”</p>
<p>“Well, I made it.” He rolled onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. “I wonder if they knew I’d come.”</p>
<p>Ingrid sat at the edge of the bed, just within his peripherals. “What makes you say that?”</p>
<p>“Who brings their daughters to enemy territory?” Well, there were a few possibilities. It was very likely that the Dukedom still didn’t trust having their heirs alone with the Adrestians. And it was equally likely that the Adrestians planned on expanding once they had a hold of Galatea. At the very least they’d need girls to appeal to Fraldarius and Gautier, if they wanted to secure eastern Faerghus in the same way. </p>
<p>Ingrid swallowed. “If they got you, too, they’d—” she paled, “Sylvain you can’t.”</p>
<p>He knew. If he got involved in this mess—whether by his father’s permission or not—the remnants of the Kingdom wouldn’t be able to survive. Fraldarius would be pinched off, annihilated, and everyone left would fall, too. Faerghus would crumble.</p>
<p>But to acknowledge it would only make this worse. “Aw, Ingrid,” he said, grinning at her, “are you jealous?”</p>
<p>“Absolutely <em>not</em>. I just won’t be able to get you out of this mess.”</p>
<p>He shifted, propping himself up to sit. With a yawn, he ran his hand through his hair. “What if I promised not to flirt?”</p>
<p> A snort. “Yeah, right.”</p>
<p>“Hey, I’m serious.” He put his hand on hers. “I won’t. Besides, my father would <em>kill </em>me if I shacked up with an Empire girl.”</p>
<p>Ingrid looked down at their hands, expression tight. Her voice was soft. “I can’t believe the Margrave let you come here.”</p>
<p>“He didn’t.” He winced at the way her head snapped up, her eyes wide. “Way I see it, I have maybe . . . three days before he drags me home.”</p>
<p>“Sylvain,” her voice was airy, like she couldn’t get enough air in her lungs, “why would you—”</p>
<p>“Hey, don’t get all sentimental about it. I was just tired of constantly being stuck in Sreng.” He fell back into the bed, resting his hands behind his head. “You’re here with a bunch of guys fighting for your hand, Felix gets to roam the countryside and admire all the pretty women there, and I get to march in ice. I needed a break.”</p>
<p>“I see.”</p>
<p>He swallowed. He didn’t have to look—didn’t want to look. He knew what it looked like when she was disappointed in him. He merely closed his eyes as the weight shifted on the mattress.</p>
<p>“Let the staff know if you need anything. They’re busy, but I think they’d like serving someone from the Kingdom for once.”</p>
<p>He sighed, keeping his eyes closed until he heard the click of his door. He wanted to reach out for her. Wanted to tell her that he’d look out for her and keep her safe. Wanted her to know that he was here for her.</p>
<p>But that would make him no different than the men who pursued her. No, it would make him <em>worse</em>.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Light filtered in from Sylvain’s window, malicious in the way it beamed right into his eyes. Rolling over didn’t help, nor did pulling the blankets over his head. He groaned, pressing his palms against his eyelids. </p>
<p>It was weird that he could feel nostalgic for the Academy. Not for the girls, or the food, or the attention. No, he missed sleeping in until his room got unbearably hot. He missed Ingrid yelling through his door, fists hammering against the wood. He missed laying there, a lazy smile on his face as she threw clothes at his head, threatening to drag him out in his nightclothes if she had to. He missed how she’d sometimes threaten to summon Felix or His Highness, knowing that either one of them could just carry him out.</p>
<p>Gautier had dismissed such luxuries, forcing him into a schedule that his father had expected from the Academy. Up with the sun, training in the frigid air, then duties for the day. In Sylvain’s case, he had found his only reprieve while touring the border between Sreng and Gautier—if sleeping in snow <em>could</em> be called a reprieve. </p>
<p>He sighed, pulling himself from his bed. From here, he could see the sun was just barely over the horizon, meaning most of the Galatea estate was still sleeping. On the bright side, it meant he could wander a bit, get a better grasp on just how doomed this whole enterprise was. It wasn’t like any of Ingrid’s suitors would be awake, anyway.</p>
<p>And if some of them were competent enough to be out and about, he could handle it. </p>
<p>Once he was properly dressed, he took a stroll around the estate. The staff knew Sylvain; they would think he had just another restless night, fun or not. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d been caught returning with the sun from one of his village ventures. </p>
<p>But there was no time to play when he couldn’t ensure Ingrid would be alright. </p>
<p>With a sigh, he turned down into one of the servant’s halls. The hall had the most direct avenue to everything—if one could avoid the head of the staff. So often he’d been caught in this hall, large fingertips yanking down on his ear to whisper furious threats. Oh, he could still hear her screeching: the torment he’d endure if he was caught stealing from the kitchen again, or sneaking in from the village, or hiding in the corridors with a maid. </p>
<p>As he continued to walk through the manor, he found himself dipping into nostalgia. Just over there, he’d swiped treats for his friends from the kitchen. And right in the other hall, he’d peeked around pillars, struggling to ignore the only pillar that had a mix of poorly-stifled giggles pouring out from behind it. Just beyond this other door, they’d snuck into the armory, Felix and Ingrid regaling him with tales of the knights associated with each weapon. And if he looked just down the hall here, he could make out the library, which once had the four of them huddled under a blanket, small bodies pressed against him insistently as he read. </p>
<p>His smile faded the moment he stepped into the yard. He wouldn’t be so bold as to call this a training ground; it was more just a little sparring area, made up of flattened dirt, sand, and a ramshackle wooden fence. It probably didn’t help that there was only a poorly-stitched training dummy or two, and maybe only one weapon rack that was well-stocked. </p>
<p>But it made sense: until very recently, the Galatea estate wasn’t anywhere near the Kingdom’s borders. Unlike Fraldarius, they weren’t scrounging up an army to handle the Kingdom; unlike Gautier, they weren’t gathering their men for another Srengi assault. Most of Galatea’s pegasus knights trained in the field, where it was easier to practice in the open sky. There was no reason to have a formal training ground within the estate’s borders.</p>
<p>But that never stopped Ingrid. She’d been adamant to learn, demanding that Glenn teach her the lance every time he and Felix were over. She didn’t want to be protected; she wanted to fight by his side, wanted to be someone he could be proud of. Glenn only laughed, eventually conceding to her whims. In the end, though, he didn’t seem to mind as he showed her how to hold her lance, or how to strike, or how to defend herself. Eventually, both of them started training together, smiling and laughing. </p>
<p>The memory made Sylvain’s chest ache.</p>
<p>Something shifted in his peripherals, his instinct  driving him back into the shadows. From behind the wall, he could see Ingrid approaching. She was in her training garb—a stark contrast to the clothing he’d seen her in before. There were no frills to this, no garnishes, no overt femininity. Just plain leather and linen designed to be practical. Sylvain found this <em>far</em> more flattering. </p>
<p>As she approached the training ring, she glanced around, expression serious and lips pressed together. She seemed nervous as she grabbed her training lance, pulling it close like a child afraid to have her favorite toy stolen. </p>
<p>Ingrid took one breath, then two. Slowly, her shoulders dipped, hands sliding up along the shaft. Her weight shifted to her back foot. Then, quick as a blink, she struck. Her breaths were restrained—nothing like those glorious shouts of hers on the battlefield. Steps were quick and light, movements sure and focused as her lance nearly whistled with each strike. </p>
<p>He leaned against the wall, watching with poorly-veiled interest. True, her attacks were a lot like they’d been during their Academy days. She was fierce, powerful, agile. But there was something off about it. Her strikes weren’t consistent. Her footing was unbalanced in a way that would leave her vulnerable in battle. Even <em>he</em> could tell that her training had been slipping. </p>
<p>Sylvain chewed on the inside of his cheek. If he was a proper man, he’d leave her to train on her own. He’d do nothing that could potentially jeopardize her position. He’d let her enjoy the little bit of peace she had here, maybe bother her when the sun was fully in the sky. </p>
<p>But a proper man also wouldn’t be irritated when another approached. Even if the man was definitely the very definition of a sniveling, entitled noble boy. </p>
<p>“Miss Galatea,” the man said, the vowels of her name extending far longer than necessary, “I was hoping I could find a moment with you.”</p>
<p>Ingrid paused in her strike, pressing the head of her lance into the sand. Her expression was impressively neutral. “Oh, good morning. Could we possibly do this later? I’d like to finish my training.”</p>
<p>“Oh, I see no reason for that.” Even from this angle, Sylvain could make out that infuriating smile. It was a miracle Ingrid didn’t just smack him with the shaft of her lance. “If you were to marry me, you’d never again have to worry again about training.”</p>
<p>Sylvain’s fingers pressed into the stone of the wall beside him, fingernails cutting into the moss.</p>
<p>Ingrid’s lips twitched. “That’s very kind, but actually—”</p>
<p>“In fact, there would be no reason to get your hands dirty.”</p>
<p>“Honestly, I—”</p>
<p>“You could live at ease, needed only to—of course—boost the morale of my men with your beauty.”</p>
<p>Oh, Sylvain was not going to survive if he had to listen to this for another moment. And he would never forgive himself if he left her to handle this misery alone. Sure, he knew the suitors were bad, that it would be a challenge to find something even a little enticing among them. But this man was not even qualified for a second look, let alone momentary consideration. </p>
<p>He rubbed his face. She was going to hate him. </p>
<p>With a sigh, Sylvain jogged over, doubling over immediately once he was just at the edge of the sparring area. He forced his breaths to be labored and irregular. “Sorry, ah . . . one sec,” he coughed, wheezing a little, “I slept in. Sorry.”</p>
<p>“Sylvain? What—”</p>
<p>He raised his head, letting the goofy grin settle on his face. “I know. I know. I’m an idiot.” He coughed again to clear his throat. </p>
<p>Well, Ingrid looked bewildered, and a little annoyed, but at least she didn’t look furious. Her mouth was agape, lashes blinking rapidly as if it might help her process her thoughts better. </p>
<p>He reached for a training lance, letting his smile slip into something more lopsided and carefree. “Right. I’m ready. Try not to grind me into the dirt, okay?”</p>
<p>“Excuse me!” The man’s voice was petulant more than it was angry. Sylvain glanced over, an eyebrow raised. “We were having a conversation!”</p>
<p>Sylvain turned, his body shifting to face the man in full. His expression slid into something cold and harsh, as merciless as he was toward any enemy he’d ever encountered. It was the same lack of empathy that aided his father and his brother—brutal, intimidating, terrifying. The same coldness in his blood, too. </p>
<p>He glared down at the man, lip sliding into a smirk. “Be quicker next time.” </p>
<p>Predictably, the man sputtered. Sylvain watched him turn on his heel and run—his pride nothing in comparison to his cowardice. Soon enough, the simpering noble was entirely out of sight. </p>
<p>“I was fine, Sylvain.” Oh, he <em>knew</em> that tone. It was the same tone she had right before she lectured him for an hour, or smacked him across the face, or a combination of the two. “You shouldn’t have gotten involved.”</p>
<p>No, he shouldn’t have. But he had to.  He exhaled sharply through his nose, letting himself settle back to the fool as he glanced over his shoulder.</p>
<p>Ingrid’s eyes shimmered brightly with her annoyance, fingers clenching hard around her lance. If she wasn’t careful, she’d snap the wood. </p>
<p>He hummed. “Should I go get him, then?”</p>
<p>She twitched rather aggressively, cheeks flushed. Her gaze snapped away, head violently following the motion. “What are you doing here?”</p>
<p>Shrugging, he spun his training lance around in his hands, letting the shaft settle against the back of his arm. He stepped into the training ring, shooting her a smile that he knew she ignored. “Believe it or not, I actually came here to train.” </p>
<p>Ingrid’s eyes narrowed. “Since when do <em>you</em> train?”</p>
<p>He laughed. “You sound like Felix.”</p>
<p>He was yanked back by a firm hand on his arm. He glanced down, Ingrid’s expression serious. Well, he could take ‘serious’ over ‘furious’. “I don’t need you protecting me.”</p>
<p>Sylvain sighed, patting her hand affectionately. “Ingrid, if I wanted to be your knight in shining armor, I’d tell you.” Well, that was a lie. “I just needed to get some energy out. And that wasn’t going to happen with that guy and those, well, frankly amateurish lines.” He shook his head. “It was so bad it made <em>me</em> cringe.”</p>
<p>Her expression softened slightly, but her hand remained there. Emerald eyes ran over his face, her worry obvious in the tight line of her lips. </p>
<p>Sylvain didn’t get up early. He didn’t train. He didn’t compete for her attention. So, to her, he <em>must</em> be unwell. </p>
<p>So he kept smiling.</p>
<p>She sighed, dropping her hand. “Well,” she stepped across the ring, shifting her grip on her lance, “only a spar, right?”</p>
<p>“Just a spar.” He said, shifting the weight to the balls of his feet, testing the ground beneath him, getting his footing before Ingrid charged.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Sylvain panted, breaths heavy as he propped himself up on his arms. The ground here was nothing like he was accustomed to—the dirt provided little leverage and was unforgiving when he overcompensated. It was even less forgiving when Ingrid knocked him onto it, too easily swiping his feet from beneath him with rapid swings.</p>
<p>“You’re going easy on me, aren’t you?” She said, scowling as she offered him a hand. “You should have won at least one of those.”</p>
<p>He took her hand, glad for her aid. He was going to feel this in his spine for a while. “In my defense,” he hummed, dusting off his pants, “Sreng doesn’t use lances much.”</p>
<p>Ingrid blinked, eyes wide with curiosity. “What do they use, then?”</p>
<p>“Lots of mages, swordsmen,” he paused, considering, “their axmen are incredible.”</p>
<p>“Huh. I never would have guessed.”</p>
<p>“I mean it. Never saw someone that strong before, except for maybe the Professor. Once, one of them cut through my armor like it was butter.”</p>
<p>His tone might have been light, but he couldn’t resist his hand instinctively going to his shoulder, thumb rubbing over the thick line of scar tissue there.</p>
<p>Pressing the flesh there was like shoving himself into the memory, the echo of pain flooding him with vivid remembrance. He could see himself struggling through the snow, his blood seeping into his footprints as heavy limbs struggled to keep moving. He’d had to support himself with the Lance, its Crest Stone making everything glow a sickening red. Everything looked the same—he didn’t know where he was going—but he knew he’d die if he stopped.</p>
<p>He’d somehow stumbled into a village, but he had no idea how. They’d cared for him with some vulneraries and more local medicines. It was really only enough to keep him stable—to keep the wound from opening—and they’d sent him away before he’d fully recovered. He couldn’t begrudge them too much; he knew they had only helped him because he had dealt with their bandit problem. Keeping him from death was an equal payment, but recovery wasn’t—not when it would take too many of their much-needed supplies.</p>
<p>He startled at the sensation of cold fingers brushing against his neck, pulling aside his collar. His heart thrummed, body aching to break away, to escape. He restrained it to a twitch, fists clenching and unclenching to try and alleviate the stress.</p>
<p>Ingrid’s fingers ran over the scar. She was so gentle, as if she wanted to guide the memory of pain away, as if it could heal without the memory anchoring it there. As if she was afraid any pressure might tear it open again.</p>
<p>“There wasn’t a healer with you?” She asked, her breath warm against his skin.</p>
<p>Sylvain swallowed, body frozen. “No. Gautier can’t afford having that many men wandering around.”</p>
<p>“Surely the others—”</p>
<p>“No others.” He smiled, though it was weak. “It’s usually just me.”</p>
<p>He could feel her finger’s twitch. “But you—”</p>
<p>“You worry too much.” He put his hands on hers, removing it from his shoulder.  He placed it back on her lance, curling her fingers there. Too aware of her gaze, he idly fixed his collar. “Like I said, he only got me once.”</p>
<p>There was something in her gaze that he couldn’t place. It wasn’t pity—no, he was pretty sure he knew what that looked like—but it was close. “I wish you didn’t have to do that alone.”</p>
<p>“Oh, Ingrid,” he grinned, letting his voice shift into something sickly sweet, “are you volunteering?”</p>
<p>She shoved at his shoulder, forcing distance between them. That glare of hers was back, as fierce as ever. “You can’t take anything seriously for five minutes, can you?”</p>
<p>He laughed. “Guilty.”</p>
<p>The thing was, he almost <em>could </em>imagine it. He could imagine fighting together, finally at ease in battle just because he knew she was looking out for him. Actually putting his heart into combat, knowing he had someone to protect. He could imagine traveling across the snowy borders, her by his side. Huddling in a cave to avoid the worst storms, pulled together for warmth. Smiling at her from across the campfire, absorbed in the way the shadows flickered over her face, and the light reflected in her eyes. Laughing as she elbowed him for an inappropriate compliment or flirtation, even though he always meant it when it came to her.</p>
<p>He could imagine it—he craved it. He wanted that warmth, the presence of a person who cared about him. But he could not—would not—condemn someone else to that fate. And he especially would not do that to <em>her</em>.</p>
<p>“I should get changed.” He said, fixing one of his buttons. “No one wants to eat around a guy who reeks. Especially not a pretty lady.”</p>
<p>She snorted. “Can’t give it a rest, can you?”</p>
<p>He shrugged, dropping his lance into the weapon rack. “What can I say? I’m predictable.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Sylvain sighed, rummaging through his dresser. It had been a blessing that he had prepared at least a couple sets of travel clothes. The problem, though, was that it was <em>only </em>travel clothes—things meant for Srengi weather, for keeping a low profile. They were hardly suitable for a Margrave’s son visiting an ally.</p>
<p>Normally, he wouldn’t care. It was fun to flaunt his name when he was toying with girls, but that wouldn’t cut it here. He needed some way to distinguish himself as Sylvain Gautier, something that didn’t involve him having a girl on each arm. It would be problematic if the suitors here disregarded him as a servant, or got more aggressive if they saw him as a threat. Neither would help Ingrid much, meaning he needed to find a balance. </p>
<p>He could shop. Galatea goods were by no means elegant, but there would certainly be <em>something </em>there to distinguish him from a random traveler. Pants without holes, a coat that wasn’t obviously designed to act as a secondary armor, shoes that hadn’t lost their shine ages ago. He had the coin to afford it.</p>
<p>But it felt wrong to leave Ingrid, especially when he’d just got here. It wasn’t like he assumed that he was any real sort of obstacle, but it felt like he <em>should </em>be. He felt like the suitors should fret over the threat of Sylvain Gautier appearing from nowhere to judge them.</p>
<p>A part of him wanted to ask Ingrid to join him; he wanted to act like he wanted her advice, like he needed her guidance. But that was silly. First, he didn’t need her help, and knew she wouldn’t fall for such an obvious ploy. Second, if her father had greatly limited her movements, he <em>absolutely </em>would not let her go anywhere outside the estate. Not if there was a risk of Sylvain stealing her away.</p>
<p>But, if he couldn’t have her join him, then he didn’t want to leave. Sure, he had only been here a day, and he was hardly around her even then, but it still felt wrong to just leave her here by herself.</p>
<p>Sylvain sighed, grabbing the least-worn clothes of the set. It would just have to do. Maybe it would somehow look more impressive with the Gautier cloak around his shoulders—though there was an equally likely chance that it would look more pathetic.</p>
<p>His fingers toyed with the buttons of his shirt as he stepped to the other end of the room. Most of his things had been put away, but still he kept his satchel at the nightstand. It wasn’t like the contents were special, but it just felt better to have his food somewhere inconspicuous where he could watch it, and a knife nearby in case someone tried something foolish.</p>
<p>Both precautions were silly, he knew that. Poisoning or stabbing him would be suicide. Even Count Galatea would realize how fragile the agreement between him and the Dukedom was, and the territories would fall into conflict. </p>
<p>Though Sylvain still wasn’t entirely convinced that was the case. He knew what it was like when someone just wanted power (hell, he lived with someone like that for most of his childhood), and—while Edelgard’s choices were hostile—it just didn’t make sense to build an empire on distrust. But that didn’t mean all of her followers shared her intentions.</p>
<p>With a hum, he portioned himself a small amount of his rations, knowing he would have to spread it out. Jerky and dried bread was by no means appetizing, but—poisoning concerns aside—he didn’t really want to put more of a strain on the Galatea household. Sure, the suitors had brought food—but he had the feeling that they were the main consumers of it, too.</p>
<p>Well, it was fine. He had acclimated to this—to the small pull of hunger that was just weak enough to be relegated to the back of his mind, dull but not forgotten. It was doubtless the same experience Ingrid had as a child—even in the last five years since the Academy. The same reason he used to sneak her extra food when she visited Gautier, or why he’d move a portion of his meals to her plate at the Academy.</p>
<p>He sighed, shaking his head. He hoped, at the very least, that she wasn’t hungry now.</p>
<p>With his breakfast wrapped in a small cloth, he left his room and ventured through the estate. The main areas, he knew, would start to be overwhelmed with people. The dining hall was probably already a mess with the ‘guests’ filtering in, the offices would be full of nobles trying to negotiate their positions, and the entry hall would be overwhelmed with suitors just waiting for the moment Ingrid walked through. Very likely, a few of them would be skulking around the training grounds, just incase her training went late. And, for the overly ambitious, a few would probably be sticking around the stables to hound her morning routine.</p>
<p>But Sylvain knew this estate. And he knew Ingrid. She was smart; she’d know that they already expected her in those places. She would find a way to avoid them until her father forced her to attend breakfast—where Sylvain clearly wasn’t invited.</p>
<p>So, at least for the morning, he had no choice but to eat alone and try not to worry.  Which meant that he could go to the only other place where the suitors would certainly never venture: the gardens.</p>
<p>The gardens were quaint, to put it lightly. By no means were they as desolate as Gautier’s long-abandoned attempts, but they were hardly enough to feed the estate. Still, something was better than nothing.</p>
<p>After all, the lettuce was doing well, long leaves spreading out over well-managed rows. Even the cabbage and carrots were getting there, though it was still some time before it could be properly harvested. Some of the plants looked like they were late—their small sprouts sticking up in the dirt—but they seemed to be provided enough care that they would probably be fine.</p>
<p>While the garden itself seemed to be doing well, it had been reduced to merely functional means. The dirt path was left at that, unseemly compared to the better-tended paths of the estate. Tools and equipment were left to lean against whatever surface was available. Scraps of fabric were used as a makeshift canvas to insulate some of the newly-planted berries, though with the quality of those wrappings, the outcome was questionable at best.</p>
<p>Well, at least no sensible noble would be found here.</p>
<p>Sylvain hummed, stepping along the less-muddy parts of the path, finding a decently dry patch under one of the apple trees. The blossoms had just started to reveal themselves under the leaves, offering a pleasant view compared to the rest of the mess.</p>
<p>He took his seat there, letting his back rest against the smooth wood of the trunk. The morning light peeked through the branches, but it wasn’t enough to cut the chill from the previous night. He pulled the thick fabric of his cloak over his shoulders, breathing into it to warm himself.</p>
<p>It was probably warm in the Galatea dining hall, the room overwhelmed with the heat of the nearby fireplace and the presence of too many bodies. Too much activity would make the heat blistering, especially in comparison to the rest of the manor. And there was likely an overabundance of that, with them all fighting to sit beside her.</p>
<p>After all, it had been sweltering when they were kids. When they could all hardly settle for the dinner—Felix, Dimitri, and Ingrid all clamoring to sit next to Glenn. Sylvain had been too old to join that mess—not that he particularly cared to—and just watched as they wrestled and argued and yelled, making themselves into a rather funny pile on the ground by the table. Glenn had always watched and laughed, teasing about making bets on who would win.</p>
<p>He nibbled on the bread, a smile on his lips. Inevitably, Ingrid and Dimitri always won, leaving a sniffling Felix to sit beside Sylvain. Felix, though a poor loser, was easily consoled when Glenn started regaling them with tales of the Academy. To be fair, they were <em>all</em> enchanted by those. Fascinated by a place so far outside of their familiarity.</p>
<p>Dirt crunched nearby, snapping Sylvain from his thoughts. It was probably too late in the morning for the staff to care for the garden. Possibly they were using this avenue to avoid nobles, taking the furthest route possible from the chaos. If he didn’t bother them, they wouldn’t approach him.</p>
<p>But the footsteps stopped in front of him. He glanced up.</p>
<p>No, this definitely was not a member of the staff. None of Galatea’s maids were around his age, and none of them let their long golden hair fall in long waves over their shoulders (since it would get in the way). None of their eyes had that red hue that was particularly foreign to Farghus, and none of them could afford the makeup that emphasized the eyes and lips. Most notably, though, the maids didn’t wear dresses that fit so closely to their form, or skirts with slits that went far higher up than remotely necessary, or blouses that covered maybe half of their busts (if he was being generous).</p>
<p>He’d been around long enough to know that none of the Galatea maids were half this gorgeous, either.</p>
<p>Sylvain smiled. “The dining hall is on the other side. Follow that hall and spot some panicking staff and you’ll find it.”</p>
<p>The woman hummed, shifting the cloak around her shoulders. It really was more of just a hood with a cape, so Sylvain greatly doubted it was any source of warmth. If she was cold—as she <em>had </em>to be—she had enough presence of mind to not show it.</p>
<p>To his surprise, she sat beside him, pressing her bare shoulder against his cloak. “I was already there.” Her voice was soft—not like a whisper—but a siren’s song. “It was so <em>boring </em>without a certain someone.”</p>
<p>He took another bite of his breakfast. “Oh?”</p>
<p>“Mmhm.” She pressed closer. “They’re all just clamoring around Galatea. Shameful, really. Pathetic. There’s someone far more appealing . . . strong and handsome . . . just hiding in Galatea’s walls.”</p>
<p>Sylvain bit his tongue. The first time was an accident, the second was necessary for some semblance of control over his instinct. He wanted so badly to dance the same dance he’d done at the Academy—to smile and wink, to press the illusion of interest. To enjoy being wanted—to remember what that felt like—before the luster wore off and the doubled edged sword of the game bit him back.</p>
<p>Besides, the girls at the Academy were amateurs. Most of them hadn’t had a boyfriend their whole lives—those who did never had one who knew how to provide everything they wanted. Well, <em>almost</em> everything.</p>
<p>This woman, well, he was pretty sure she was the same sort of player that he was. She knew how to stand to draw the most attention to her best features, how to emphasize them with the slightest toss of her head or tilt of her shoulders. She knew how to keep her smile pleasant and level—to charm, to mystify, to make her target pursue her. She wasn’t as overt as Manuela or Dorothea had been, but that made her more difficult to read.</p>
<p>Someone like this, well, dating them was like walking on an old bridge that happened to be catching fire; a wrong step could make him burn into ash, another could make him plummet into the abyss—or perhaps he would actually make it across intact. And she was definitely the sort who could make him absolutely miserable, if she won. She was the sort of woman he wouldn’t have minded dating once or twice, in any other situation—at least for the challenge.</p>
<p>“Hm,” Sylvain leaned his head back, eyes tracing the outline of one of the apple blossoms, “can’t recall seeing anyone like that. I’ll let them know you’re looking for them.”</p>
<p>She laughed. “You’re cute.”</p>
<p>He smiled, shifting his attention back to the bread. “So I’ve heard.”</p>
<p>Her fingers curled around his wrist, stopping it just short of his lips. Her grip was by no means overwhelming, but he knew the determination behind the way her nails curled against his skin.</p>
<p>“Come now, Gautier,” her other palm settled on his knee, not so subtly sliding up his thigh, “there’s no need to play coy.”</p>
<p>He swallowed. “I’m—"</p>
<p>“Gautier,” She pulled his wrist further from his mouth and closer to hers, “I know something far more tasty you can savor.”</p>
<p>Okay, not a challenge—a danger. Really, <em>really </em>dangerous.</p>
<p>“<em>Sylvain!</em>”</p>
<p>Sylvain tensed on instinct, snapping his hand away from the stranger. Her nails bit into his skin, but it was far better than the alternative. Far better than Ingrid thinking that he was—</p>
<p>—except a look made it clear that she already thought the worst. She stood just at the edge of the path, her arms crossed and expression fierce. Her eyes were alight with fury, lips twitching as if she still couldn’t determine the right way to scold him. Her finger tapped on her arm, which was probably the only thing keeping her from strangling him.  </p>
<p>“Sylvain,” she said again, arms crossing tighter to her body, “stop harassing Miss von Richter.”</p>
<p>“Oh.” He hummed, idly breaking off a piece of the bread and tossing it in his mouth. <em>Of</em> <em>course</em>. That was all it ever was, all it ever could be. Ingrid had dealt with his nonsense for years—had learned his habits and his foolishness. That would be, then, all that defined him now. “It was just pleasant conversation.”</p>
<p>A part of him wanted her to see something more, to understand. The other part knew that it was his fault she didn’t.</p>
<p>Ingrid shook her head, as disbelieving as if he’d told her he saw a pig fly. Instead, she looked to Miss von Richter, expression level. “Your father was looking for you.”</p>
<p>“<em>Oh</em>.” Miss von Richter’s tone hid none of the distaste she had for her host. She didn’t try to hide the searing glare, either.</p>
<p>Ingrid shrugged with a single shoulder. “I believe there was something he wanted to relay to you and your brother.”</p>
<p>“Oh very well.” Miss von Richter sighed like a woman burdened by a thousand trivialities that were hardly worth her attention. Still, her smile and tone was sickly sweet when she looked back to Sylvain. “I suppose we’ll have to talk later.” She pressed a kiss to his cheek, lips brushing against his skin as she whispered, “Don’t miss me too much.”</p>
<p>Sylvain merely stared at her as she ran off, disappearing into one of the halls. Oh, she was going to be a problem. A <em>severe</em> problem.</p>
<p>But not as much of a problem as Ingrid distrusting him—especially when only yesterday he’d said he’d behave. He definitely didn’t want to consider that was probably the <em>point</em>.</p>
<p>He looked back to her, wincing at her still-annoyed expression. “Listen, Ingrid—”</p>
<p>“You don’t have to put up with that.”</p>
<p>He blinked, staring at her. The words and expression didn’t match up. “What?”</p>
<p>Ingrid sighed, her fingers digging into her arms before she looked away. “I have to put up with people flirting with me all the time; that doesn’t mean you have to tolerate it as well. Whatever you choose to do won’t reflect on Galatea.”</p>
<p>He swallowed. Maybe she understood him more than he thought. Now it was simply discomforting that maybe someone could see right through him. So, he smiled. “What makes you think I didn’t like it?”</p>
<p>Ingrid rolled her eyes, still glaring at one of the buckets in the distance. “I’ve been cleaning up your messes for <em>years</em>. I know what it looks like when you’re flirting.” She cleared her throat. “J-just so I know when I’ll have a headache coming in, soon.”</p>
<p>Sylvain opened his mouth and closed it again. There were things he could—normally would—say. Teasing her about being jealous, or letting him have his fun. But those words were dry on his tongue. “Huh.”</p>
<p>Her eyes snapped over to him. “What?”</p>
<p>His smile slid into something soft and affectionate. “I guess I just always thought you saw me as purely irredeemable.”</p>
<p>She glanced away again, cheeks pink and a smile just at the edge of her lips. With a small sigh, she moved to sit beside him. “You’re impossible, but not irredeemable.”</p>
<p>Silence sat between them, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Even with the small space between them, he could feel her warmth—not radiating, just a soft and comforting presence, reminding him that she was there.</p>
<p>“It’s not as good as what they have in there,” he said, shoulder nudging hers as he shifted the contents of his breakfast a bit, “but I’m happy to share.” Admittedly, the portion left was still pretty minimal, but mostly jerky was left, so he was sure she didn’t mind.</p>
<p>Ingrid glanced down, smile sweet on her lips. “I think I’d prefer something plain, for once.”</p>
<p>She took one of the pieces of jerky, though to his surprise it wasn’t the largest one. Still, he watched from the corner of his eyes as she nibbled on it, her expression at absolute peace. It was the same sort of look she had when they ate together at the Academy, even though this was nothing compared to the plates she often piled so high with food.</p>
<p>He looked away.</p>
<p>“You know, Sylvain,” she said, licking her lips as she considered another bite, “if someone corners you like that again, just say you need to meet with me.”</p>
<p>He struggled to keep his attention focused on the path in the distance. “I’m not sure—”</p>
<p>“I don’t mind being your excuse this time. If you need to get away, you can be safe with me. Or . . . hide in my room if you can’t find me.”</p>
<p>Heat rose to his cheeks. He tried to convince himself that it was sheer shame at her thinking <em>he </em>needed a knight in shining armor to protect him, but even he knew better. “Oh, Ingrid,” he said, flashing his  most obnoxiously charming smile, “what will people <em>think</em>?”</p>
<p>She laughed. “They’ll think I’ll throw you out the window if you try anything.”</p>
<p>“Ha, I suppose I’ll have to stay on my best behavior, then.”</p>
<p>“As if you even know what that means.”</p>
<p>“Hey, I’ve been good lately.”</p>
<p>Not that his father really allowed much else. The Academy had been a great place to play and reject his father’s rules—to play at courtship but ultimately deny his father the satisfaction of any tangible gain. However, that was impossible with his father’s shadow looming over him in Gautier; even if the war had delayed any obvious attempts, Sylvain was certain the man still encouraged the staff to flirt with him just in case something came from it.</p>
<p>Sylvain <em>had </em>to be on his best behavior, just to avoid the shackles of responsibility.</p>
<p>“Oh, I’d almost forgotten.” Ingrid muttered, tongue peeking out to lick the salt off her fingers. “My father wished to speak with you.”</p>
<p>He groaned.</p>
<p>“Well, it could be worse. At the very least, he isn’t going to threaten you with death.”</p>
<p>“No, that’s true.” Sylvain sighed; that was something <em>his</em> father would certainly do. “But he’s probably going to try to get me to leave.”</p>
<p>She sighed, leaning against him. Her head settled against his shoulder. “Well, you are being rather stubborn about this.”</p>
<p>“You’re one of my oldest friends, Ingrid.” He said, tone not half as teasing as he wanted it to be. “If you’re going to marry anyone, they have to deserve you.”</p>
<p>She laughed. “Thanks for that.” Her head shifted against his shoulder, her arm resting more against his. “I’m glad you’re here. All of this . . . I think it would have crushed me if I had to face it alone.”</p>
<p>“No, it wouldn’t.” He said, fully sincere. “You’re strong. You would have made it.”</p>
<p>“Well, I’m glad at least <em>you </em>have faith in me.”</p>
<p>He smiled, resting his temple against the top of her head. “Worst case, if you needed a way out, I think we could get Ebony and Berries and be out of here within twenty minutes.”</p>
<p>She shook her head, the action too much like a nuzzle against his shoulder. “I could never do that. I’m sure they would . . . retaliate against my people.”</p>
<p>Sylvain hummed, passing her the last piece of the dried meat. “They just want a marriage. Your father’s single. He can marry one of them.”</p>
<p>She laughed, the sound soft. “You know, he’s going to be furious when he finds out the Margrave didn’t send you.”</p>
<p>“He won’t.” Sylvain shrugged with his free arm. “Our fathers aren’t exactly on speaking terms.”</p>
<p>She hummed, but it was entirely noncommittal. It was easy to tell why; her head had gotten heavier on his shoulder, her weight pressed more against him, her breaths had slowed, and the jerky sat forgotten in her hands.</p>
<p>Which meant he had to be <em>very </em>still so he wouldn’t wake her.</p>
<p>He sighed, nibbling on the meat she’d left. It didn’t surprise him that she was exhausted. No doubt the stress and anxiety of the situation had been overbearing, even at first. And then it must have been exhausting to deal with so many people vying for her attention—she wasn’t inept socially, but she wasn’t used to being the center of attention like Sylvain was. Plus, her sleep was probably restless, concerned that some morality-lacking suitor might—</p>
<p>—no, he didn’t need to think of that. What mattered was that she was comfortable <em>now</em>. That she could rest here, and know that she was safe. The circumstances around it were none of his business.</p>
<p>He glanced up, eyes following the clouds as they languidly traveled across the sky. </p>
<p>It had been so long since they were last like this. A lifetime ago, even. It was when they were still children, when Ingrid wanted to show Glenn that she could ride a horse the next time he visited. She’d been learning on a pony when he was around, but she wanted to impress him.</p>
<p>The problem was that her horse was not as cooperative as a pony taught only to be used for learning purposes. It bucked and openly disobeyed her and very nearly threw her. It left her angry and exhausted, bawling her eyes out as Sylvain struggled to console her.</p>
<p>He managed with a promise: he wouldn’t rest until she was satisfied. He spent hours with her and the horse, soothing them both, working them into trusting each other. The sun was very nearly beneath the horizon by the time the two could finally work together in unison in a way that Glenn would be impressed by.</p>
<p>By then, they were so exhausted that they collapsed together against the tree. That didn’t stop her from chattering on though, talking about how quickly Glenn had mastered horse riding, and fighting, and everything he put his mind to. And it didn’t stop her from going on and on about her plans and how hard she had to work to make sure she was worthy of him—after all, she wanted him to know that his future wife was as talented and hard-working as he was. Sylvain didn’t mind so much, even if he did envy Glenn; it was worth it to see the bright smile on her lips.</p>
<p>Ingrid shuddered, soft words passing her lips. It was too quiet for him to discern the words, but at least it didn’t seem like she was upset. He lifted his head, tilting it to get a look of her face.</p>
<p>She was still asleep, lips slightly parted as they formed over inaudible words. Her cheek pressed against Sylvain’s shoulder, shifting easily when he adjusted the angle to grant her better access. Her eyelashes fluttered as she dreamed.</p>
<p>She shuddered again, eyebrows crinkling in an instinctively frustrated fashion. A small grumble passed her lips, certainly to the effect of the weather being rude.</p>
<p>At first, Sylvain was surprised that she was cold. Sure, Galatea was not the icy landscape of so many of the other territories, but it still had snow more often than it didn’t. Besides, Sylvain was a natural heater, meaning that being so close should have made her sweaty, not freezing.</p>
<p>Then again, normally she was dressed in far more insulating material than this. Thin linen spread across her chest, letting her shoulders peek through the top. Additional layers of cotton spread over this, but they were so irregularly fashioned and organized that any warmth the material could have provided was entirely moot. While it could be assumed that the long sleeves might offer something for warmth, the linen here was pretty much useless, too.</p>
<p>From an observer’s eye, it was gorgeous. The greens could do nothing but compliment her skin tone and eyes, while the whites made her seem soft and delicate. The dress was clearly pulled in all the right places. It was something far more noble than anything Ingrid would have ever worn—and probably something her father insisted upon.</p>
<p>It was beautiful, but it was far from practical.</p>
<p>He swallowed, fingers pressing at the clasp of his cloak. It was a slow and delicate process as he shifted his weight, pulling his cloak from around him. Ingrid moved with him, hardly a mutter passing her lips. Gently—oh, so carefully—he pulled his cloak around her, tucking it behind her shoulder. When he was finally able to blanket his cloak over her fully, he closed the clasp so it wouldn’t fall off. She sighed; it was a small, content little thing, but it brought a flush to his cheeks all the same.</p>
<p>His eyes flicked up, something just at the edge of his vision. To no surprise, a couple of her undoubted suitors stood there, whispering together as they glared at him. That they hadn’t approached was sign enough of the sort of men they were.</p>
<p>Sylvain smirked, gaze firm upon them, and they fled.</p>
<p>He sighed, leaning back against the tree. Beneath the cloak, he could feel her fingers curl into his sleeve, feel her breath against his arm. It was a lullaby without sound. Yes, things were threatening and things were bad, but with her here like this, it felt like he stood a chance.</p>
<p>In a short time, Sylvain fell into a sort of soothing meditation, his senses open and aware, but not entirely alert. Servants didn’t pass by here, and none of the other suitors seemed to come to disturb their reverie. He couldn’t assume that it was an act of goodwill from the two that had seen them, but it was pointless to focus on it now.</p>
<p>He wasn’t sure how much time passed before she started to stir. He could guess; the sun had moved above them, finally starting to warm the land. In the distance, some of the staff was starting to work again, meaning that another meal was imminent. Which meant they’d been there for an hour, maybe two.</p>
<p>He glanced over, smiling down at her. Ingrid smiled too, her gaze unfocused as she blinked up at him. The more she looked at him, though, the faster panic seemed to form on her expression.</p>
<p>In a flash it erupted, Ingrid practically jumping away from him, face as pink as the apple blossoms above her. “I-I-I am so sorry!” She stammered.</p>
<p>He laughed, the sound far fonder than he intended. “What for?”</p>
<p>Ingrid’s gaze snapped away. “I didn’t come here to sleep.” Her flush deepened. “And especially not on you.”</p>
<p>He smiled. “Hey it worked for me. I got to watch over you without having to move.”</p>
<p>Her expression softened, but clearly the embarrassment hadn’t died completely. She rubbed her face. “Even so,” she muttered, “you’ll . . . definitely be late to meet with my father.”</p>
<p>“He couldn’t be bothered to send an actual messenger,” Sylvain shrugged, “so I can’t be bothered to arrive on time.”</p>
<p>Her eyes flicked to his, lips pressing together with uncertainty. Slowly, she brought herself up to her feet. By the time she straightened her back and offered her hand to him, the blush had died completely.</p>
<p>Sylvain took her hand with a smile, glad for her help. The angle he’d used to accommodate her nap hadn’t been good for his balance, the blood flow definitely not reaching his knees. Standing on his own would have been an impressive display of shame as he stumbled about.</p>
<p>He stretched, resting his hands behind his head. Yep, blood had definitely stopped flowing to his arm, too. He flexed his fingers and toes, hoping it might serve as some encouragement.</p>
<p>“So,” he hummed, “what are you going to do while your father lectures me?”</p>
<p>“I need to check on the horses and Berries.” Ingrid sighed, playing with the fabric over her shoulders. Her fingers ran over the clasp, undoing it.</p>
<p>“Keep it on.” Sylvain said, placing his hands on hers. His fingers brushed over her knuckles, slipping past to redo the clasp.</p>
<p>“Sylvain, I can’t just—”</p>
<p>“It’s cold, and I don’t need it.”  He straightened the cloak on her shoulders, brushing her hair out from under the hood. This close, he was <em>certain</em> that her short hair suited her. It made him want to play with it between his fingers. He cleared his throat to dislodge the thought, his smile lopsided. “Besides, I don’t think the horses care if you’re in my clothes.”</p>
<p>Ingrid sighed, expression still uncertain as she looked up at him. Still, he didn’t miss how her fingers ran along the hem of the fabric, or the way she pulled it closer to her. It made her look so small, so meek, so—dare he say it—cute. He frankly wouldn’t mind if she had it forever so long as he got to see her like this once in a while. “. . . okay.”</p>
<p>Sylvain hummed, shifting the clasp so the Crest wasn’t visible. “And, when you’re done, if you’re worried about wearing these colors, leave it on Ebony. I don’t think she’ll mind the blanket.”</p>
<p>“I’d rather return it to you.” Ingrid smiled. “So, in the meantime, don’t make my father angry, okay?”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sylvain sighed, standing outside the Count’s door. Nothing good could come from talking to the man.</p>
<p>It was possible that the noble at the training grounds had already tattled like a child, so Sylvain was going to be scolded for ‘interfering’. Or maybe the servants already noticed that Sylvain wasn’t chasing after everything with a pulse, which could be just as potent of a sign. Or, very possibly, his father had actually managed to make it here already, meaning the game was very much up. Or perhaps it was just a casual interrogation, just to make sure Sylvain had his story together.</p>
<p>Whatever it was, Sylvain needed to tread carefully, or Ingrid was doomed.</p>
<p>He inhaled slowly and knocked on the door.  </p>
<p>Count Galatea’s voice was surprisingly firm on the other side. “Come in.”</p>
<p>Sylvain smiled and stepped in, gently shutting the door behind him. With a casual stretch, he walked before the Count’s desk.</p>
<p>It was surprising, really, that none of his ‘guests’ were here. From the way things had looked before, they had seemed a constant shadow, nipping at his heels with every step. But the room was empty now; there was no one of the Dukedom, of Adrestia, and not even his advisors. Just Sylvain and Count Galatea.</p>
<p>“Take a seat, Sylvain.” The Count said, motioning to the chair in front of him. “I don’t believe you and I have ever had the chance to talk one-on-one.”</p>
<p>Sylvain slid into the seat, resting his ankle on his knee. “Well, not like we had much reason to. Usually that’s my father’s territory.”</p>
<p>“Mm,” Count Galatea leaned forward, resting his chin on laced fingers, “yes, he’s very open about his opinions.”</p>
<p>Sylvain bit his tongue. <em>That </em>was a nice way to put it. But, perhaps, to a man like Count Galatea, his ‘opinions’ were merely a minor step more extreme that his own.</p>
<p>“Now then, the reason why I called you.” Count Galatea’s eyes narrowed. “It’s just the two of us, so I want you to be honest with me, Sylvain.”</p>
<p>Well that was a joke; Sylvain wasn’t honest with <em>anyone</em>. Still, he had to play the game. “Sure.”</p>
<p>“Why are you here?”</p>
<p>Sylvain blinked. Slowly, he tilted his head, eyebrows knitting together. “I’m certain I told you already. Just want to make sure Galatea isn’t being taken—”</p>
<p>“The <em>truth</em>, Sylvain. I’ve known you for too long for you to pretend with me.”</p>
<p>“Sir?”</p>
<p>Count Galatea sighed, rubbing his face. “You’re far too much like your father, Sylvain.” He said, his hand fortunately rubbing at his eyes so he couldn’t see Sylvain twitch. “You only get invested if there’s something you want. Something for you to play with, or benefit from.”</p>
<p>Sylvain struggled to keep his smile in check. Even so, he could feel it fall slightly. “I’m not sure I understand.”</p>
<p>If Count Galatea was an observant man, Sylvain would be sure that the man saw right through him. Even so, the piercing gaze made Sylvain wish he could squirm in his seat. “You’re as interested in my daughter as the rest of them.”</p>
<p>If Sylvain hadn’t spent his lifetime hiding behind smiles—if he was <em>any</em> sort of appropriately expressive man—heat would rise to his face, his words would fall apart to stammering. He would be condemned by his mind. </p>
<p>The truth was that he <em>had </em>considered it, once. Back after Glenn died, it was clear that Galatea would suffer from the loss—no, it was clear <em>Ingrid</em> would. He wanted to give her a safe place where she could be herself, where she wouldn’t suffer from the pressures of her homeland. But Gautier was no sanctuary, and Sylvain was no prince in shining armor. He knew, even then, it was better to just wait for the Academy, for some perfect guy there to sweep her off her feet.</p>
<p>A lot of good that had been.</p>
<p>Sylvain’s lip twitched. “Considering they just want her for the land and alliance that comes with her, I’d say I’m more interested.” He shrugged playfully. “At least I like her for who she is, and not what she comes with.”</p>
<p>Count Galatea’s lip twitched. “Is that so?”</p>
<p>“Of course. We’ve been friends for . . . well, at least her whole life.” Sylvain shrugged. “Though I doubt that’s by <em>her</em> choice.”</p>
<p>Count Galatea smiled—a simple act that sent a chill down Sylvain’s side. “And this situation is not her choice, either. I am exceedingly aware of the effect it has on my daughter.”</p>
<p>“You still let it go on, though.”</p>
<p>“Sacrifices must be made for the safety of our people.” Count Galatea leaned back in his chair. “But it is foolish to rush into them without considering the possibilities.”</p>
<p>It was always so easy for people to sacrifice something that wasn’t theirs. Sylvain’s jaw clenched against his will. “And what are those?”</p>
<p>“Adrestia is admittedly quite powerful. It did not take them long at all to form their little Dukedom. And the Dukedom is as powerful as Adrestia, with Adrestia backing them at seemingly every step. But they are not insurmountable. They have not yet won the war.”</p>
<p>Sylvain raised an eyebrow.</p>
<p>Count Galatea smiled. “If they had, there would be no Dukedom.”</p>
<p>Sylvain swallowed. “If you don’t think Adrestia will win, why even humor this?” He ran a hand through his hair. “True, it’s not foolproof for the Kingdom, either. We might not have a king, but we’re not giving up, and—”</p>
<p>“I will not count on nobles’ crumbling fealty to a dead King. Families have been wiped out with less.”</p>
<p>Sylvain did his best to not let his exasperation show on his face. “So what is it you want?”</p>
<p>Count Galatea looked away. “When things start to crumble, the only things a man will fight for is himself, his people, and his family.”</p>
<p>So that’s what it was. He didn’t care if it was the Kingdom, or the Dukedom, or Adrestia. He just needed someone who would see Galatea as their own, who would protect it when the war came to a head and things started to fall apart. </p>
<p>Sylvain supposed that was almost true—but not for a place so close to the battlefront. For Galatea, their choice could turn their home into a warzone.</p>
<p>“And, Sylvain,” there was a lilt to Count Galatea’s tone that put Sylvain on edge, “Gautier is as good of an . . . investment . . . as Fraldarius ever was.”</p>
<p>Sylvain felt his mouth dry, his expression slipping. He knew the recovery would be more obvious than anything. But—“You’re saying <em>I</em> should marry Ingrid?”</p>
<p>Galatea’s smile was chilling. “If the Kingdom wishes to prove its willingness to keep us as allies, I am merely suggesting that it should offer one of its sons. And, as Duke Fraldarius seems to be preoccupied by impossibility . . . well, there’s only so many men here her age.”</p>
<p>Sylvain twitched. “Doesn’t she get a say in this?”</p>
<p>“She does.” Galatea folded his hands on the table. “She gets to choose who she marries.”</p>
<p>“But—”</p>
<p>“Wouldn’t it be preferable if it’s someone she <em>knows</em>?” Count Galatea’s eyes glimmered, but it lacked the charm of Ingrid’s. “Or, if you aren’t going to take this seriously, Sylvain, then I will ask you to leave. I can’t afford any . . . distractions. The future of Galatea is too valuable for that.”</p>
<p>Sylvain swallowed hard, rising from his seat. If he had to hear any more of this, he was going to find himself in Galatea’s dungeons. “If that’s all?”</p>
<p>“One more thing, Sylvain.” Count Galatea said, raising an eyebrow. “If you <em>are </em>interested, we are having a bit of a ball tomorrow. I <em>suggest </em>you get something appropriate to wear.”</p>
<p>Sylvain nodded, turning on his heel and walking to the door as normally as he could manage. But he knew his expression was all wrong, and his steps were too quick. He knew that he was losing his grip on control.</p>
<p>This was wrong. <em>So</em> wrong. It had been wrong to force Ingrid to choose between Adrestia and the Dukedom, but it had been worse to suggest that Gautier could be an alternative. To suggest that <em>Sylvain </em>would be!</p>
<p>And he knew—he knew that if she had no choice, if she could stall no longer—she would choose him. Not for affection, but because it would keep her loyal to the Kingdom, would at least match her with someone who cared enough for how she felt. But Sylvain cared, the Margrave didn’t.</p>
<p>He ran a hand through his hair. His mind was swirling with unwelcome images, hammering into his head like rusted nails.</p>
<p>The Margrave would thrust upon her the same expectations that he had thrust upon Sylvain’s mother. He would steal away her knightdom, trap her within the walls of Gautier to serve as insurance for Sylvain’s foolishness.  The moment the ring was on her finger, the Margrave would reduce her to only a mother—a source of Crest children to solidify the lineage. </p>
<p>And Sylvain wasn’t sure he could stop him. He wanted to <em>save</em> Ingrid, not condemn her further.</p>
<p>Normally, there was an easy way to spare himself of such images. He would find a cute girl, flirt with honeyed words. Soften her until he could lose himself in the bliss of sweet kisses and tender touches. Let the sensation and habit drive him, let his mind fall away until there was only Sylvain—the flirt, the rogue, the fool. But even those thoughts left a bitter taste in his mouth.</p>
<p>“<em>Sylvain!</em>” A hand dug into his sleeve, pulling him so hard backward that he almost tumbled. He did stumble a bit, though, his head snapping around to find the culprit.</p>
<p>And there was Ingrid, irritation written in the crinkle between her brows. He blinked at her dumbly.</p>
<p>“Were you just going to ignore me?” She hissed, fingers digging more into his sleeve. “Honestly, I—” immediately, her eyes widened, mouth snapping shut to cut off her scolding. Her expression slid into something so much softer—her grip loosening on his shirt. “Are you okay?”</p>
<p>He smiled, though he knew it wasn’t quite right. He tried to center himself by noting that his cloak was no longer on her shoulders—but that only made it worse. “Why wouldn’t I be?”</p>
<p>“Sylvain,” her hand reached up, warm palm pressing against his cheek, “you’re pale. Like you saw a ghost. Did something happen?”</p>
<p>He sighed, letting his mind focus on the touch between them. There were calluses on her palms, the trophies of her dedication. He could feel the way her thumb just slightly brushed over his skin, the tip of it uneven with a scar.</p>
<p>He knew that scar; they were kids when she got it, when they tried to sharpen their weapons together—but both were so young and unskilled that it was a failure. And yet somehow only Ingrid had suffered for it.</p>
<p>He exhaled, falling back into his smile. He could smile for her, save her from the mistake this time. He patted her hand. “Just distracted.”</p>
<p>“With?”</p>
<p>“Your father mentioned a ball. And I . . . have nothing to wear. Nothing without holes, anyway.”</p>
<p>Ingrid’s eyes narrowed.</p>
<p>Ok, he needed a distraction. He could work with a distraction. He slid into a toothy grin. “I suppose I could go out in just my underthings. Do you think the guests would be offended?”</p>
<p>Ingrid flushed, concern snapping into annoyance. “You can’t take anything seriously, can you?”</p>
<p>He hummed. “I mean, unless you have suggestions?”</p>
<p>She looked away, lips pressing into a thin line. Either she was <em>actually </em>trying to come up with things to wear, or she was wondering if it would cause an incident if she slapped him. Well, at least a reddened face from a slapped cheek would be a decent and not unfamiliar distraction.</p>
<p>His control was improving, he could feel it in the way he could slide from his careless smile into the smallest amused look with the tilt of his head. But it was still fragile—as delicate as it had been when he was a boy. If he fell into bed and just slept the rest of the day away, then maybe—</p>
<p>“There’s a shop in town.” Ingrid muttered, still not looking at him. “They probably have something that would work.”</p>
<p>“Oh.” He blinked, mind flicking back to the town. There had been plenty of shops back when he was a kid, but he knew they were closed now. He’d passed through enough to know many shops in Galatea were vacant. “Where is it? I guess I could head over before it—”</p>
<p>“I’ll take you.” When she looked up to him, the blush was gone. But there was something else there that he couldn’t place—a sturdiness in her gaze that wasn’t akin to any sort of anger or annoyance. </p>
<p>“There’s no need to trouble yourself.” Sylvain yawned. “I’m a grown man, I’m sure I can dress myself.”</p>
<p>She snorted. “I remember what you looked like at the Garreg Mach ball. I am not letting you get away with that again.”</p>
<p>Sylvain smiled, the memory far too clear in his mind. True, there was the Academy-standard attire that they’d all been expected to wear. But Sylvain was nothing if not creative when it came to breaking standards. Though Ingrid scolding him for the better part of an hour wasn’t quite as fun.</p>
<p>Even now he could recall her straightening his shirt and fixing his buttons, ignoring others as they asked her to dance. He could remember the feeling of her fingers through his hair, the hairs at his nape shifting with every breath she took.</p>
<p>He could still remember the flush on her cheeks when he grinned at her—and that night he hadn’t really cared if it was anger or embarrassment.</p>
<p>“Well,” he sighed, stuffing that memory into the back of his mind, “I thought you weren’t allowed to leave the manor.”</p>
<p>She shook her head. “No, just the town. I can’t stay away long, but . . .”</p>
<p>Sylvain glanced up. Just around the corners, he could catch the gazes of a few of her more zealous suitors watching them talk. No doubt they’d swarm her like insects the second Sylvain was out of eyeshot. It was surprising, really, that only his presence kept them away. Well, he could accommodate.</p>
<p>“Oh fine.” He sighed dramatically. “But only because you asked nicely.”</p>
<p>“You’re not doing me a favor, Sylvain.” Ingrid grumbled, though it lacked heat. “<em>I’m</em> helping <em>you</em>.”</p>
<p>“Okay, fine.” He laughed, offering his arm. “What if I buy you some skewers in town?”</p>
<p>Ingrid set her hand within the nook of his elbow, her smile small but endearing all the same. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Sylvain sighed, staring at the coats on display in the shop. One was almost a Gautier green, the shoulders and chest tailored in a way to emphasize one’s build and power. Beside it, there was another in a deep maroon: the waist pulled in, embroidery on its cuffs delicate and refined; a means to show one’s litheness, perhaps even diminish their physical state to emphasize other things. And another in black, a simple garment that on its own was a statement.</p>
<p>Before it would have been a simple calculation to choose the statement of power in Gautier green—people would only see the boisterous man of Gautier, be drawn only to his form and nothing else. Back then, he only wanted to throw away the hopes and expectations around him—he only wanted to be the reckless fool, the incorrigible flirt, the man whose worth was only in his Crest.</p>
<p>But he didn’t want to be that, not for this, not with Ingrid. But the other options weren’t offering much better, either.</p>
<p>He nibbled at the wood of his skewer, the salted-sourness of the meat still lingering. He hoped it would ground him, would help him think, but his mind was still a muddled mess. Everything had become messy lately. He just wanted it to stop, for everything to be as clear as it had once been.</p>
<p>“If you keep chewing on that, you’ll end up swallowing it.” Ingrid plucked the offending skewer from his hand, glaring at him as she threw it away.</p>
<p>“You’re just jealous that I was still enjoying mine.” Sylvain teased. He glanced at the pile of shirts in her hands. “Someone was busy.”</p>
<p>Ingrid shook her head, lifting shirts and sizing them up to him. Her eyes narrowed as if she had to <em>really </em>focus to imagine him in each one. Occasionally, she shook her head as she separated them into two piles—one on her shoulder and one in the crook of her elbow. “You just needed to pick a coat, how hard can it be?”</p>
<p>“In my defense, they would all look good on me.”</p>
<p>She rolled her eyes, shoving a pile of shirts into his hands. Only one was left on her shoulder. Idly, she stepped up to the coats, her eyes running over each one.</p>
<p>It was enthralling, really, how focused she was. Her eyes were half-lidded, lips parted slightly as she muttered silently to herself. Her fingers ran over the fabric of each one, her touches delicate and thoughtful. A touch of pink brushed over her cheeks. </p>
<p>It was the same look she had when she was picking a weapon.</p>
<p>“So,” she said, voice nearly a whisper as she continued to look over the garments, “do you want to tell me what my father said?”</p>
<p>He cleared his throat, turning away to fold the shirts. He stacked them into an orderly pile on one of the tables. “Just ball stuff. You know, the usual.”</p>
<p>“Sylvain.”</p>
<p>“Fine, you caught me.” He sighed in exasperation. “He’s definitely your father. He told me to behave myself when it comes to the other girls tomorrow. They have their reputations to keep.” He shrugged. “And you know how I am with reputations.”</p>
<p>He could feel her eyes in the back of his head. “I hope this wasn’t started by von Richter.”</p>
<p>He ran his thumb over one of the collars. “Doubt it.” Oh, this web of lies was going to snag him if he wasn’t careful. “He was fairly broad about the whole thing. To be fair, he does know my habits pretty well.”</p>
<p>“I suppose.” She sighed, jaw clenched. “But you’ve not caused any problems so far. Maybe I should talk to him. I don’t know why he’d go so far as to—”</p>
<p>Crap. “I think he just doesn’t want his ball to be a mess.”</p>
<p>“Mm.” He could hear the soft hum of her voice, then the rustling of fabric. He didn’t turn around, unsure if he wanted to know what she thought would suit him best. He wasn’t even sure he could guess. “I think it’s absurd to have one. We barely have the resources for guests, let alone a <em>ball</em>.”</p>
<p>Sylvain smiled to himself. “Maybe he thinks it will be like one of your stories. A man appearing in the night, sweeping you off your feet. You dance together till the sun rises. And then you get married and have a bunch of cute babies.”</p>
<p>She laughed. “Those men are chivalric knights. Defenders of the innocent, noble, brave.”</p>
<p>Sylvain leaned against the table, letting his eyes fall to the window outside. To the traffic passing by, to people walking by with so many fewer things holding them back. “Find any guys like that?”</p>
<p>Ingrid lay a hand on his shoulder, nudging him to turn around. In her hand was a coat he’d not considered—a black coat embroidered with dark red (nearly black) roses along the cuffs and inside the coat. Small blue-black flowers clustered near the buttons.</p>
<p>Sylvain took it in hand, trying it on. The waist was pulled in slightly, but it wasn’t as drastic as the others. And the shoulder line didn’t emphasize how broad he was, but it certainly made no attempts to hide it, either.</p>
<p>“The only thing my suitors have been,” Ingrid said, straightening the collar on his coat and running her hands down the fabric of his sleeves, “is disappointing.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Sylvain yawned, the bundle of clothes tucked neatly under his arm as he walked through Galatea’s halls. At his side, Ingrid idly munched on a meat pastry he’d bought in town. It was almost astounding that it had lasted the trip back to the estate, but he certainly wasn’t going to comment on it.</p>
<p>“I think I’ll call it early tonight.” He muttered as he got to his room, hand wrapping around the doorknob. “I’m beat.” He doubted that his mind was going to let him sleep much, but he’d at least try. </p>
<p>“Sylvain.” There was an edge in Ingrid’s voice.</p>
<p>“Oh, don’t worry. It’s not an excuse to ditch you and go out. I’m really tired.”</p>
<p>“Please don’t lie to me.”</p>
<p>The crack in her voice snapped him to attention. He spun his head around, looking down at her. “I’m not.”</p>
<p>“Not . . . about this . . .” Her fingers were laced in front of her—the treat now gone. Her hands wrung together, thumbs kneading uneasily at her skin. Her gaze was downcast, eyes so focused on the floor that he couldn’t even read her expression.</p>
<p>“Well,” he swallowed, “about what, then?”</p>
<p>She inhaled, then exhaled. “About what my father said. I . . . know you’ve been lying to me.”</p>
<p>Lying was almost a second nature to Sylvain. He knew how to lie before he knew how to hold a lance. And lying to his friends had become just as easy as lying to anyone else. Perhaps easier, if it was for their benefit. </p>
<p>But it didn’t escape his notice that Ingrid had asked again and again. And to lie to her a third time—he wasn’t sure he could. Whether it was respect, or guilt, or simple exhaustion . . . he didn’t know.</p>
<p>“Ingrid,” he pressed his lips together, “I don’t think you want to know what we talked about.”</p>
<p>“I do.” She said, gaze snapping up to him. “If it makes you this upset, I want to know.”</p>
<p>“It’s not . . . that bad.”</p>
<p>“Then tell me.”</p>
<p>Sylvain swallowed. “He . . . said that if I wanted to protect you from the Dukedom and Adrestia, then I should marry you.”</p>
<p>Ingrid’s expression fell, face immediately bright red. “W-what did you say?”</p>
<p>Sylvain looked away, counting the grains in the wood. “I said I have no say in the matter. Whoever you marry is your choice.”</p>
<p>“Don’t be a fool, Sylvain! Of <em>course </em>you have a say! And you could say no!”</p>
<p>Sylvain lowered his head, shifting his attention to the scratches and dents scattered across the wood.  His fingers clenched and unclenched around the cool metal of the doorknob.</p>
<p>“<em>Sylvain</em>.” Ingrid grabbed his sleeve, forcing him to turn and face her. “I know you. I know you flirt all the time—with everyone and everything and it’s honestly unbearable. But I still know <em>you</em>.” She smiled, but it looked fragile, like a single breath would make it shatter. “You’d rather lose an arm than commit to anyone. Both arms over being <em>forced </em>to meet people’s expectations.”</p>
<p>Sylvain couldn’t keep looking in her eyes. He glanced away. “I don’t know.”</p>
<p>She gaped. “You’re kidding.”</p>
<p>He wanted to say yes. He wanted to just laugh it off with a shrug, just smile as she yelled at him for being an ass.</p>
<p>But he couldn’t. Even with emotions aside (and he was <em>not </em>going to deal with those), it was the most politically sound idea. The combination of their territories was mutually beneficial. Gautier had manpower, money, and resources that Galatea desperately needed, and Galatea had goods and specialized fliers that would help support long journeys and battles far away. They were also close enough where, if things started to fall apart, they <em>could </em>appropriately support each other. And two of the late Prince’s closest friends—two <em>Crest-bearing</em> friends—marrying? Well, it would be the sign of a still-strong unified front for the Kingdom.</p>
<p>“You’re . . .” Ingrid paled, “you’re considering this.”</p>
<p>“A bit.” He admitted, words not cooperating with his tongue. Slowly, he looked back at her. His smile felt pathetic on his lips, but he <em>had </em>to smile, lest it crumble to something else. “I mean there’s <em>worse</em> things. At least with me you can keep fighting—I won’t stop you, I never would.”</p>
<p>“Sylvain.”</p>
<p>“And . . . and when you <em>did </em>find someone you liked, I wouldn’t stop you from pursuing them.” He chuckled, but it was pathetic. “I could cover for you, too, if you wanted.”</p>
<p>“Sylvain, this isn’t—this isn’t funny.”</p>
<p>“At least,” he swallowed, “at least then I could know you’re safe.”</p>
<p>Ingrid inhaled sharply, her hand dropping from his arm. He wasn’t sure what he expected to see when he looked back at her—but it certainly wasn’t rage. And it definitely wasn’t <em>fury</em>.</p>
<p>“Ingrid—"</p>
<p>“I’m not having this conversation with you.” She stepped away like standing near him was filling her lungs with poison.</p>
<p>“I was just—”</p>
<p>“<em>Good night</em>, Sylvain.” She turned on her heel, not allowing another word as she practically ran down the hall.</p>
<p>Sylvain scratched the back of his head. He shouldn’t have expected differently. With a sigh, he stepped into his room. On instinct, he hung his clothes and fell face-first into bed.</p>
<p>Inevitably, he would be rejected. He always was. He just thought, maybe, good intentions would at least make her hesitate.  He’d hoped she would look past who he was and accept something that could help her. He’d even given her an out when someone appealing <em>did </em>come by. It wasn’t as if he’d stop protecting her when she did finally find her knight in shining armor.</p>
<p>He groaned, pressing his face into the pillow.</p>
<p>Maybe she just didn’t believe that he <em>could</em> protect her. Maybe she trusted him as much as she trusted the other suitors. Maybe she thought he was just using her to advance himself and his family’s position. Maybe she thought he’d trap her in Gautier, confine her to solitude while he gallivanted across the continent.</p>
<p>But, the more he thought about it, the more he knew he could protect her. After all, he knew people. He knew what they wanted, he knew how easy it was to please them without giving anything. He could use that to allow her to chase her freedom, the wings of her pegasus taking her where she pleased.</p>
<p>She could be his in name alone, free to truly belong only to herself.</p>
<p>But maybe she knew that there was nothing about him that was appealing. He wasn’t valiant or brave, and he certainly wasn’t dedicated. She probably knew that marrying him would do little else but tarnish her reputation. There would always be the whispers, always be those scrutinizing gazes trying to pull her apart. The only words she’d ever hear would be regarding him—how she could tolerate him sleeping around, the mistresses, the challenges to her children’s claims with the infinite numbers of children he <em>must</em> have had with mysterious women. If she married a man like him, she would be Ingrid the scorned wife, not Ingrid the knight who just so happened to marry a Gautier.</p>
<p>It left a bitter taste on his tongue, knowing that he had ruined her chance of peace by just being <em>Sylvain</em>.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sylvain sighed, staring at himself in the mirror as he buttoned up his shirt. His sleep—if he could even call it that—had been restless. Most of the night had been spent staring up at the ceiling, the shapes of the shadows no distraction from his mind.</p>
<p>Through much of the night, his mind had wandered into something awful; of Ingrid standing across from him at the altar, face pale as she tried to hold onto a pathetic excuse for a smile. He imagined a broken relationship, everything so much like his parents’. Touches limited to only what was required to continue the line, words between them nonexistent. Him looking up at her as he rode away from the estate, watching as her eyes dulled with each passing year. He could imagine her an empty shell of what she had once been, burdened by a lack of love between them and the weight of expectation pressing more and more upon her shoulders.</p>
<p>Then he had been plagued by a worse potential: standing as a witness for her marriage. The last day he would ever get to see her before she was swept away to Adrestia or the Dukedom. Perhaps letters between them, but shallow and useless in content. Maybe they would find each other on opposite ends of the battlefield . . . and he’d let her lance run him through.</p>
<p>But, when his mind began to be fogged and distracted from his own misery, he did get to taste something sweet. In a half-lucid state, he dreamt of them with their boots deep in snow, their horses in step beside them. He dreamt of leaning down to whisper in her ear—flirting with her and only her—reveling in the way his words brought heat to her cheeks. He dreamt of them huddled around a fire, his arms wrapped around her to keep her warm, her affectionate whispers punctuated with hot breath against his skin. He dreamt of warmer days, too, with her scolding him for being lazy or careless or both, a small red-headed child hiding behind her skirt and giggling. He dreamt of scooping the child up in his arms, pressing a kiss to Ingrid’s lips to muffle her irritation. He dreamt that she didn’t mind.</p>
<p>Upon waking, he knew he had to apologize. It would be simple. Instead of excuses, instead of acting like he was a salvation, he could just do what she expected of him. Apologize for the bad joke, promise that he would never again ask her to marry him, and go on with life as they had done so before. He would look out for her, she would scold him, and things would just be normal.</p>
<p>Then again, he couldn’t pretend that the last dream had not bothered him—that, for once in his life, the prospect of being with only one person, of dedicating himself to her, was even <em>desirable</em>.</p>
<p>Which meant normal would be impossible.  </p>
<p>As the day went on, he realized that it was impossible for more reasons than one. He didn’t miss the way Ingrid sped her pace to leave whenever he was remotely in the vicinity. He bit his tongue as he watched her converse with every suitor that approached her. It was obvious that she was purposely keeping one at her side at all times—engaging them with questions or idle banter about things that he <em>knew </em>she didn’t care about.</p>
<p>He sighed, buttoning up the front of his coat. His hands brushed down the sides, straightening out any wrinkles. Admittedly, his reflection did look good. The coat didn’t necessarily emphasize anything, but it made no attempts to hide his features, either. The embroidery made the color of his hair more prominent, even as he ran his hands through the strands to slick it back into something more formal.</p>
<p>He leaned in a bit closer, fingertips running over the small ring of dark beneath his eyes. It wasn’t quite as prominent as eyebags, but anyone looking closely enough would still be able to see his sleep deprivation. Well, it wasn’t really that much different than normal, all things considered—maybe only a fraction darker. It did make his eyes and expression more serious-looking, though, which could help.</p>
<p>Well, it would help if Ingrid <em>actually </em>talked to him again. It wasn’t like he could drive off suitors if he wasn’t actually there by her side.</p>
<p>Though that did pose a more concerning problem. He stared down at his cuffs, adjusting them so his shirt sleeve didn’t peek past. </p>
<p>Count Galatea only tolerated Sylvain so long as he remained a potential suitor. In theory, Sylvain could bluff, could dance on the fine line between suitor and simple friend. if Ingrid could make it seem that she was considering it, then the delicate balance would continue. They could stall, and perhaps the perfect candidate would appear. </p>
<p>However, if Sylvain wasn’t convincing in his interest, or if it didn’t seem like he had a chance, then he would be removed from Galatea. </p>
<p>Considering that Ingrid wouldn’t even <em>look </em>at him now, the chances did not look good. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Sylvain lingered at the edges of the ballroom, steps slow as he tried to not draw too much attention to himself, at least not yet. He kept his smile languid, eyes falling on the significant features of the room.</p>
<p>Count Galatea had done remarkably well considering the timing, the circumstance, and the fact that he wouldn’t know taste if it bit him on the nose. Soft curtains draped along the windows in wide loops, flowers tucked into every fold. Bright white tablecloths spread over long tables at each end of the room, though they were almost impossible to see past the piles of food heaped upon them. There were several groupings of chairs along one of the walls, each chair painstakingly decorated with ribbon and flowers. The chandeliers—left to tarnish and dust since he’d been a child—were polished bright, the light throwing a soft glow on everything.  </p>
<p>But he didn’t miss that the flowers and ribbons were a mixture of Adrestian, Dukedom, and Galatea colors, all twisted together. Or that the outfits the nobles wore mirrored those colors. Or that the arrangement of food was clearly of Adrestian influence, and nothing remotely near Faerghus’ customary foods. Or that the music was certainly sourced from Adrestian traditional songs, and were completely unidentifiable in Faerghus.</p>
<p>And the desire to minimize Faerghus was even more obvious in what everyone wore. The Adrestian nobility was layered in expensive fabrics, extravagant jewels collared around their necks and wrapped around their fingers. The Dukedom’s nobility was just a step lower—the fabrics of their garments were pricy, but certainly confined by limited means; their accents were kept to the simplicity of gold and silver, no doubt remnants of their inheritance than any new wealth. And then there were those of Galatea; the nobles were hardly dressed better than the servants who attended them—most were in old garments several seasons old, while others had only been able to afford from the same shop as Sylvain, though of a decidedly lesser quality.</p>
<p>Admittedly, it was clever. It was a competition, a reminder, maybe even a promise.</p>
<p>Clearly, though, most of the attendees did not understand the subtle implications of the difference. Instead, they squandered their advantage as he passed by, loudly comparing the wealth or goods of their houses—as if Ingrid’s opinion could be swayed by the number of horses they had, or the number of men willing to fight for them. Others at least had the pride to compete over their personal advantages: their prowess in battle, their command over their men, their victories against rebellions (otherwise known as: the people of Faerghus trying to reclaim their homes)—as if Sylvain didn’t know that Ingrid could still utterly trounce them in a fight.</p>
<p>He exhaled a near-laugh, finding no need to linger long around them. </p>
<p>There were a few others, though, that <em>did </em>catch his interest. These were men who—while still competitive—spoke in a way that even Ingrid would have at least a passing interest in. They spoke of  their love for their people driving them to ignore their inhibitions about marrying an enemy soldier. They were willing to sacrifice themselves if it meant that their home would survive, that their people would thrive. With them, perhaps the mutual unease between husband and wife would give way to trust and affection. </p>
<p>Even with them, though, IIngrid was just an object—a means to an end. She wasn’t admired for who she was or what she stood for.</p>
<p>And that wasn’t what he wanted for her.</p>
<p>A familiar melody pulled his attention to the dancefloor. He and Ingrid had danced along to it before, when he struggled to teach her how to dance while their fathers quarreled. He’d tried to lead her across the floor then, only earning trampled toes and a kicked shin for his efforts. The song had played again when they were older and practicing for a ball hosted for Dimitri, and—while his toes were considerably less abused—she was still awkward to lead.</p>
<p>His eyes found her too easily there, following her as she was led around the floor. Her steps were uneasy, but they lacked the awkwardness of their youth. Instead, she stepped in time with her partner—his steps shorter to accommodate the limitations of her dress and heels. She followed without complaint as he led her across the floor, the spins making her wide sleeves, long skirt, and numerous decorative ribbons flare out behind her like a cape. Even from this distance, he could see every tired breath, her chest already flush from the exertion—the dress putting too much of it on display for his liking.  </p>
<p>He forced his attention upward to her face, lest he give himself away. Ingrid’s hair was let down, each end curled so it bounced as she moved and swayed. A single pin laced with crystal flowers pinned some of her hairs behind her ear, but its glimmer was nothing in comparison to the way her eyes shimmered in the light. Some makeup had been applied to emphasize the color of her eyes and the shape of her lips, but it had been cleverly done, only adding to the natural beauty already there.</p>
<p>Seeing that slender smile on her face made his chest hurt.</p>
<p>“Um . . . Sir Gautier?”</p>
<p>It was a struggle, but Sylvain forced his gaze away from the dancefloor, and toward the small voice that spoke to him. He blinked, his smile still pleasant even as he raised an eyebrow.</p>
<p>The girl in front of him fidgeted, wringing her hands like it wouldn’t permanently wrinkle the gloves she wore. Her dress was modest and completely unflattering. Almost every part of her was covered from throat to toe, only a small sliver of her pale arms visible in the transition between sleeve and glove. Her eyes flicked between his face and the floor, as if he would ruin her if she made eye contact too long.</p>
<p>“Um,” her voice was quiet, almost inaudible compared to the noise of the crowd, “d-do you want to dance?”</p>
<p>He blinked.</p>
<p>“I-It’s just you were staring at the dancefloor, s-so I thought—”</p>
<p>It was funny; there was a warmth in his chest, but it was of nostalgia, of familiarity. She reminded him of a mousy girl back at the Academy, all nerves and no confidence. Of course, Bernadetta probably would have thrown herself over the balcony before she ever approached him.</p>
<p>His eyes flicked up across the room, to where a similar-looking woman was eyeing them. <em>Ah</em>. Of course. When he looked back down, the poor girl was still rambling. She wasn’t a player in this game, not to the same extent of the other girls or her mother.</p>
<p>Which meant he could extend some mercy to her. He offered her his hand, trying not to wince at the way her teeth clicked as her mouth snapped shut. “It’s been a while since I’ve danced,” he said, keeping his expression sweet, “so I hope you don’t mind my inexperience.”</p>
<p>Her smile was lopsided, expression more uneasy than pleased, but she took his hand all the same. “N-not at all.”</p>
<p>Sylvain led her onto the dancefloor, keeping her near the edge. It wasn’t hard to bring a skilled person closer to the other dancers near the center of the floor; it was, however, much harder to bring them out. He started slow, pulling her along with him to the music. Her legs were much shorter than his, but she seemed to have no problem keeping up with him, so long as he minded his steps. She did, however, have a considerably difficult time keeping any sort of eye contact or conversation with him. Her eyes were glued to her feet—like she was afraid her feet would misbehave if she looked away.</p>
<p>He tilted his head a bit closer to whisper in her ear. “Don’t worry. I won’t be mad if you step on me.” He smiled, even though he knew she couldn’t see it. “Can’t enjoy yourself if you just stare at the floor.”</p>
<p>Her hand tightened around his. “M-mother said—”</p>
<p>“She won’t be able to see us through the crowd. And I promise you, I don’t mind.” After all, what harm was there in a girl stepping on him when she looked lighter than his armor?</p>
<p>Slowly, she nodded, her eyes gradually coming up to him. He smiled—forcing himself to keep it tame—and idly talked as he kept her near the edges of the dancing couples. It wasn’t hard to keep a girl entertained; all he had to do was ask about her hobbies, and then ask more questions as the conversation shifted.</p>
<p>In no time at all, the music ended and he bowed. He glanced up, noticing how delayed her curtsy was. She also lingered too long with it, knees bent in a way that had to be uncomfortable.</p>
<p>He touched her elbow, offering the slightest nudge to come with him off the dance floor. Though hesitant, she took it. To his surprise, she used her hold to yank his face down close to hers—uneasy gaze immediately replaced with determination.</p>
<p>“Avoid Miss von Richter.” She whispered before he could pull away. “She’s different. And I don’t think she means well.”</p>
<p>Sylvain opened his mouth to ask more, but she was already fleeing into the crowd. She was too short to see past the masses of bodies gathered around the dancefloor. He wanted to pursue, but—as if some dam had broken—he was already being swarmed by more noble girls.</p>
<p>He knew that denying everyone but her would make a statement. And he was certain that it was a statement he didn’t want to make—even if he was equally disinclined to dealing with the girls around him, their giggles and chatter like buzzing bees. With a heavy sigh, he took another’s hand and led her into the next dance.</p>
<p>When that ended, there was another.</p>
<p>Then another.</p>
<p>And again and again, until he had lost track how many girls he had danced with. He could only guess at how much time had passed by the ache in his legs and the shortness in his breath. He was never one for stamina, and holding the attention of so many girls only exhausted him further. Even more exhausting was his desperation to keep an eye on Ingrid, to lead the dance in a way that let him keep her in his periphery. It took clever moves and almost more skill than he had—and <em>still </em>he had lost her as he danced with the last of his suitresses.</p>
<p>His mouth felt full of cotton, limbs like lead. He could feel sweat trickle down his back. Still he had to smile as he led the last of the girls off the dancefloor, offering her the smallest bow of his head as her attention was pulled by another noble.</p>
<p>He let out a short exhale, struggling to contain the groan that desperately wanted to accompany it. He needed something to drink, maybe sneak out for the relief of cold air in his lungs. As he looked at the mess in front of him, he could already anticipate the struggle to walk out of the crowd.</p>
<p>And yet they parted for him, stepping aside for him to pass. Only one person remained in the way.</p>
<p>No—he was quick to realize—they didn’t part so he could leave. They parted so <em>she </em>could enter.</p>
<p>“Sir Gautier.” Miss von Richter nearly purred, her voice at such a low timbre that it sent a chill up his spine. She easily crossed the space between them, her hands locked behind her and making her figure distinct in a way that surely had the men around her salivating. “I thought you were ignoring me.”</p>
<p>He smiled, heart racing like he had been thrust into the center of a battle. He might as well have been; she was a clever tactician. He knew she had planned to appear when he had danced until he nearly collapsed. It wouldn’t surprise him if she was the one who enlisted the girls to act against their better judgment.</p>
<p>“Of course not.” He said, his smile pleasant as he tried to step around her to escape the dancefloor. “I’ve just been preoccupied all night.”</p>
<p>“Well, that was rather rude of you.” Her lower lip stuck out in a pout as she played with the jewels that made up the collar around her throat, looking up at him through her lashes. Her hand brushed up the side of his coat, fingers pressing down wherever there was embroidery. “I think you should make it up to me. Dance with me.”</p>
<p>Her touches were like fire, every nerve of his begging to get away. It was everything he had ever used, every game he had ever played. But he knew that, if he lost this one, he lost more than just a week or so dating.</p>
<p>“I’m, uh,” he took her wrist, pulling it away from him and dropping it at her side, “I’m actually going to take a break. Probably get something to drink.”</p>
<p>Her lips twitched, arms crossing in front of her. He definitely did not miss how she shifted so they’d emphasize her endowments. “It’s only been a couple hours,” she whined, “a big strong man like you can handle one more dance, can’t you?”</p>
<p>She reached out again, and he retreated backward. He spun about, sliding into the small space still left by the observing crowd. He had plenty of practice with Felix and Ingrid rounding on him—this was child’s play. And, like a child, he knew when it was best to run when he didn’t stand a chance against a behemoth.</p>
<p>“You know, I just need a glass of something.” He said, taking another step back. “There’s still plenty of time for us to dance.”</p>
<p>And, like how Ingrid had suggested before, he fled.</p>
<p>It wasn’t like he could go anywhere far, but he still knew the places people usually failed to look. Years of experience hiding flings had prepared him well enough for that. He snagged a glass from a server as he passed by, finding his sanctuary against a pillar settled at the edge of the room.</p>
<p>With a groan, he pressed his back against the pillar, resisting the urge to just collapse it.</p>
<p>He was out of touch—<em>severely</em> out of touch. Before, he could bounce from girl to girl, go all night until he found the perfect one to entertain himself with. But the isolation in Gautier had sapped his energy for such things, and his undeniable attachments had made such thoughts sickening.</p>
<p>Idly, he swirled the glass in his hands, watching as the reddish liquid followed the movement. He brought it up to his lips, inhaling slightly. It was unmistakably wine—and a strong one at that. His lip curled as the smell burnt at his senses, and thoughts soured in his stomach.</p>
<p>Alcohol of any sort was a bad idea at events. It made people careless, often ruining connections that had been years in the making. In the same way, it made people slip, falling for things they would never agree to, or doing things they never would have considered.</p>
<p>His gaze slid across the room to the other servers, then to a table occupied by drinks. All wine.</p>
<p>His jaw clenched. No doubt this was targeted against Ingrid, meant to make her careless and easy to please. If she didn’t have time to eat, then the wine would hit harder as she drank to combat her exhaustion on the dancefloor. After all, with the situation as it was, it didn’t look like the suitors were looking for a fair and thoughtful agreement—they just wanted an agreement.</p>
<p>He glanced at the entrance to the room. If he was good, he could sneak into the kitchens, find a juice close enough in appearance to the wine. Or maybe he’d find a water that he could dye with fruit.</p>
<p>But there were too many eyes on him: too many nobles tracking his every move, too many girls waiting for him to start moving again, and undoubtedly von Richter just waiting for another chance to sink her nails into him. Besides, all it would take was for someone to have snuck out behind him, and the gossip would ruin everything.</p>
<p>“You’ve never been one to drink.”</p>
<p>The voice made him jump, and Sylvain snapped his head around. There Ingrid was, just to his left, between the pillar and the wall. Her eyes glimmered in silent accusation.</p>
<p>He took a sip, trying not to scrunch his face at the bitterness on his tongue. Sylvain tried to prove a point by smiling, but it was pathetic. “It’s this or die of thirst.”</p>
<p>“Hm.” Ingrid pressed her lips together, shifting so her shoulder brushed against his. The plate in her hands found its way between them.</p>
<p>Sylvain looked down. It was a collection of meats and cheeses—no surprise for Ingrid, really—but there was also an impressive variety of diced fruit stacked there, too. Ingrid wasn’t like Felix—it wasn’t a struggle to get her to eat properly—but the ratio seemed unbalanced, considering her preferences.</p>
<p>“Take one.” She said, spinning the plate so the fruit faced him. “It’s the only way I avoided the wine.”</p>
<p>Sylvain raised an eyebrow, but he took one anyway. As he bit into it, the juice almost overwhelmed him, forcing him to catch any drippings with the back of his hand. He was quick to shove the rest of it into his mouth, though it was far too big. Still, he couldn’t deny that the juice quenched his thirst, and that the sweetness lingered on his tongue in a way that wasn’t unpleasant.</p>
<p>“That was . . . good.” He licked his lips, not turning away the napkin that Ingrid offered him for his hand. “Have to give the Adrestians credit for their harvest.”</p>
<p>Ingrid hummed, snatching the napkin from his hand to wipe at the juice on his cheek. “Help yourself.”</p>
<p>“Beautiful, smart, and generous.” Sylvain hummed, his smile sweet. “You have it all, Ingrid.”</p>
<p>Ingrid flushed, pulling the napkin away immediately and tucking it under her plate. “That’s not funny, Sylvain.”</p>
<p>“Mm, wasn’t joking.”</p>
<p>As Ingrid sputtered at him, Sylvain took another cube of fruit and stuffed it into his mouth. This bite wasn’t as much a travesty as the first one, though it was just as tasty. With a pleased sound, he chewed on it some more, trying to get as much juice as he could for his parched throat.</p>
<p>He bent, leaving the wine glass on the floor at the other side of the pillar. It was useless to him now. When he rose, he took another bite, smiling at Ingrid’s frustrated glare.</p>
<p>“How are you holding up?” He asked, voice soft.</p>
<p>“It’s tolerable, I suppose.” She muttered, choosing to favor the meat over the fruit as she nibbled at it.</p>
<p>Sylvain grinned. “If you need, I think I can get away with tossing one of them over the bannister without someone noticing. Probably can only manage one, though, so you’ll have to point him out.”</p>
<p>Ingrid rolled her eyes, but there was still the trace of a smile at the corners of her lips. “It’s funny, I always thought you were an incorrigible flirt—”</p>
<p>“—I am—”</p>
<p>“—but these guys are worse. So much worse.” She rubbed at her temple, shaking her head. “They think talking about their land, wealth, or accomplishments counts as flirting.”</p>
<p>Sylvain hummed; it was the traditional pitfall of amateurs. They always assumed that people gave a damn about them. Real flirting, though, was making a woman feel like she was wanted, like she mattered. And Sylvain was very good at that.</p>
<p>He nudged her elbow. “I could start flirting with you, if you wanted.”</p>
<p>She groaned, but there was no depth behind it. It was playful, light. “Don’t start.”</p>
<p>He smiled, continuing to steal from her plate. “Any of these guys salvageable, you think?”</p>
<p>Ingrid hummed around a mouthful of meat and cheese. She swallowed, tongue peeking out as she licked at the sauce lingering on her thumb. “Just one.”</p>
<p>His chest tightened like his heart stopped. “O-oh?”</p>
<p>“Mmhm.” She tilted her head, eyes running over the dance floor. Was she looking for him? “I had my doubts at first, but he’s surprisingly kind and thoughtful. <em>And </em>he hasn’t tried to serenade me with his title.”</p>
<p>“That’s . . . good.” He wished he didn’t sound so lame to his own ears. He wished more that it didn’t feel Ingrid was looking right through him when her eyes met his. “I’m glad you found someone to have some hope for.”</p>
<p>She frowned. “Sylvain, I—”</p>
<p>“Oh my,” that voice returned, more and more like a blade straight to the spine, “it looks like you’re refreshed.”</p>
<p>He ran a hand through his hair. “Really, Miss von Richter, I—"</p>
<p>“I think you owe me a dance,” the noble woman said, body swaying slightly, “don’t you, Gautier?”</p>
<p>Sylvain paled. It was like the universe kept giving him a taste of contentment, only to rip it away and cut out his tongue. “I—”</p>
<p>“Unfortunately,” Ingrid stepped in, her hand wrapping around his arm, “I took his next dance to pay me back.”</p>
<p>The noble’s eyes narrowed. “For what, Miss Galatea?”</p>
<p>“For taking my food.” She nudged Sylvain, an eyebrow raised. </p>
<p>Sylvain swallowed hard. Still, he was good at keeping face. He could do that. Definitely could do that. Even as Ingrid pinched the inside of his arm to prod him along. “Uh, yeah.” He said, a lopsided smile on his lips. “I’m lucky I got away with just a dance.”</p>
<p>Miss von Richter’s expression soured, but she stepped aside. “After, then.”</p>
<p>“Thank you.” Ingrid replied, voice clipped as she set her empty plate beside Sylvain’s still-full wine glass. She shifted her grip to Sylvain’s hand, dragging him to the dancefloor.</p>
<p>It was so natural for him to pull her close, for his hand to settle on her lower back, for her hand to rest on his shoulder, for him to cup her hand in his. They fell into step with the music—his gentle guidance bringing her with him. He took her slowly around the room, the slow pace of a song so simple to match.</p>
<p>Nostalgia wove itself into the music. It rode the way her breath brushed against his shoulder when she occasionally looked down to watch her steps. It bade him to tap the timing of the music with his thumb against hers. It made his whispers too fond as he told her to relax and just let him lead, for once.</p>
<p>But there were new things, too, things that nostalgia couldn’t compare to. When he guided her into a spin, he found her waist was so much slimmer than when they were children. When they fell back into position, her expression was so soft, so fond, incomparable except to the moments when she was alone and at peace in the stables. New, too, was the floral aroma that surrounded her, but it only emphasized the natural earthy tone that was <em>Ingrid</em>.</p>
<p>It made his heartbeat thrum hard in his chest, and he could only hope that she didn’t feel it where they touched.</p>
<p>“Sylvain,” Ingrid sighed, glancing away, “I have been thinking . . .”</p>
<p>“Mm?”</p>
<p>“About what you said.”</p>
<p>“Oh.” He blinked, instinctively leading them to one of the less occupied places on the dancefloor. “So you <em>do </em>want me to flirt with you?“ He slid into a grin. “I have to warn you, it will make all the girls jealous, and make all the boys pale in compari—”</p>
<p>Ingrid’s hand clapped over his mouth, her expression serious.</p>
<p>It took all he had not to be distracted by the warmth of her hand against his lips, and he tried to center himself instead by paying attention to her glare.</p>
<p>“No.” She shook her head, hand still firmly in place. “About . . . us getting married.”</p>
<p>He winced. She lifted her hand, returning it to his shoulder.</p>
<p>“Right, that.” It felt like the pain of the rejection sliced into him anew. “I know it was the last thing you wanted to hear from me. I won’t bring it up again, I promise.”</p>
<p>She swallowed, cheeks pink. “I’m not mad about it.” She muttered. “Actually, I’ve been considering it.”</p>
<p>Sylvain glanced away. “And what about the other guy you liked?”</p>
<p>Ingrid cleared her throat. “I know that marrying you would be the only way I could still serve Dimitri, when we do find him. And I know staying with  you will ensure I can fight back when he comes back to us. But I . . . I can’t use you like that.”</p>
<p>Sylvain’s mouth ran before his mind could catch up. “You could use me any way you liked; I wouldn’t mind.” He immediately flushed, his gaze catching hers as her head snapped up. “N-not in a creepy way, I promise!”</p>
<p>Her expression softened, a fond smile on her lips only for a moment before it turned sad again. “Even if we didn’t marry immediately, my father wouldn’t take it seriously unless you swore yourself to me. No more flirting, no more running around, no more games. If he even <em>suspected</em> . . . the alliance would crumble. He’d run to Adrestia out of spite.”</p>
<p>“I know.”</p>
<p>“And . . . as annoying as your womanizing habits are, I know they’re a part of you. Maybe it’s the one thing that actually makes you happy. And I can’t ask to take that from you.”</p>
<p>True, his habits had become as much of his person as anything else in the last decade or so. It had become fun to spite his father, to court and taunt the system that suffocated him more with each passing day. Every girl he dated and denied was just one more way to strike out at those who only saw one purpose in such things: the passing of his Crest. So, yes, he enjoyed the spite.</p>
<p>But, no, it didn’t make him happy. Spiting his father only made his father’s fist clench more tightly around him, aiming to squeeze out any free will. Toying with girls only reminded him that they only saw the Crest in his blood, not the man who approached them. Every time he played the game, his mind screamed that he would someday lose.</p>
<p>Ingrid wasn’t like those girls—she wasn’t the avenue of spite, nor was she the enemy that threatened to bind him. She was as chained to the system as he was. But she never tried to strike out at it, or put herself at risk just to spite it. She just tried to do what she thought was right, and push aside the expectations for as long as she possibly could. She didn’t deny that they existed, but she refused to let them define her.</p>
<p>He could be happy with someone like that.</p>
<p>“I think,” he said, dipping his head a bit and lowering his voice, “you’re the only person in the world I’d do that for.”</p>
<p>“Sylvain.” She pinched his shoulder hard between her nails. “I’m being serious. Can you at least pretend you are, too?”</p>
<p>He smiled. “I am.”</p>
<p>Her mouth opened as if she were about to speak, but no sound came out. Instead, she gaped at him, eyes falling over his face for any mischief, any foolishness. Well, if anyone would know, it <em>would</em> be her. She swallowed. “I can’t be your shackle.”</p>
<p>He hummed, spinning her again. “If anything, I’m shackling you. Most people won’t look at a married woman. But,” his throat felt tight, “I could at least be the distraction until you found what you wanted. And . . . the whole time, your father would be watching for me to slip, not you.” He blinked, considering. “We’d probably have to share a room when people were around—just so they think, you know . . .”</p>
<p>“Sylvain, do you think—”</p>
<p>“Of course, they second we’re married—if not when we’re engaged—they’d be expecting babies out of us.”</p>
<p>She scowled. “<em>Sylvain</em>.”</p>
<p>“I’m just being realistic.” Sylvain shrugged. “If we have to fake it, we need to consider all the possibilities. I’m pretty sure I can put on a convincing act that we’re trying, which means we’ll have to work on your lies. Because, no offense, you’re an awful liar.”</p>
<p>“<em>Syl</em>—”</p>
<p>“I mean I get that you definitely wouldn’t want to share a bed with me. I can be a gentleman—bed’s all yours. I think we could stall and deflect for about a year. After all, my father definitely had issues with conception, and that would be convincing enough with the rumors around me and no Gautier bastards to show for it. We’d have to come up with something clever if they started to get outside parties involved, but—”</p>
<p>Ingrid’s hand clapped over his mouth once more. She glared at him, but it wasn’t angry. Her face was flushed far too much for her to be angry. “Sylvain. Do you think I don’t care for you?”</p>
<p>Sylvain blinked, the words sounding foreign to his ears. They just didn’t make sense in that combination.</p>
<p>Her expression fell, her hand falling from his lips. “You don’t, do you?”</p>
<p>He kept his eyes on her hand, unable to look at her. “You have plenty of reasons not to. And I—”</p>
<p>He was silenced by the press of her lips against his. It was a soft kiss, chaste and sweet in a way that he hadn’t experienced since he was a young teen. He could feel her fingers pull down at his coat, weight swaying as she stood on her toes. His hands, in the meantime, simply hovered inches away from her skin, uncertain where he could and could not touch.</p>
<p>It was as if he was afraid that his hands would not land on something solid, and he would wake from too cruel a dream.</p>
<p>Ingrid pulled away, shifting back onto her heels as she smiled at him. “You look like you’ve never kissed someone before.”</p>
<p>He smiled, a small chuckle on his lips. He shifted a hand under her chin, tilting it up as he leaned down to meet her. “Maybe it’s just different because it’s you.”</p>
<p>“<em>What is the meaning of this?!”</em></p>
<p>Both Ingrid and Sylvain twitched, their faces quickly snapping away from each other. But they didn’t pull away entirely—one of Ingrid’s fists clenched tightly in his coat, and his hand rested defiantly on her lower back.</p>
<p>Sylvain glanced to the side, where the crowd—eyes wide in a wide assortment of fury and bewilderment—were practically thrown aside as Count Galatea forced his way through. His face was red with rage, lip curled.</p>
<p>Sylvain only pulled Ingrid closer.</p>
<p>“I thought I made it <em>very </em>clear,” Count Galatea hissed, jabbing a finger at Sylvain, “that you were only to be involved if you took it seriously.”</p>
<p>“I—”</p>
<p>“I know the kind of man you are, and I <em>know </em>what you’ve been up to.” The man’s face reddened with an increasing fury.</p>
<p>Sylvain opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Too often had he heard these words; too often had he chosen to flee rather than face them. But now he couldn’t run—now he wouldn’t want to. But he severely lacked the experience in facing such fury head-on.</p>
<p>Count Galatea continued undeterred.  “If you think I will allow you to ruin my daughter, and ruin my territory with your games, then I will personally run you through.”</p>
<p>“What <em>games</em>?” Ingrid growled, stepping in front of Sylvain—much to his surprise.</p>
<p>“I’m so sorry, Sylvain,” Miss von Richter stepped forward, her expression and tone anything <em>but</em> sorry, “but I had to tell Count Galatea about our feelings toward one another. I worried that it would be unfair to Miss Galatea.”</p>
<p>Sylvain paled, nearly choking on his own tongue.</p>
<p>Ingrid, however, still stood in front of him, shoulders tense with coiled rage. “If you’re going to lie, try to be convincing about it.”</p>
<p>“I don’t have to lie.” Miss von Richter smiled. Her fingers hooked at the jeweled collar, removing it. It was a miracle that the accessory had managed to hide so many love bites that blotched her skin. “The proof’s right here.”</p>
<p>“Ingrid,” her father’s voice shifted into something chiding, lacking the heat it had toward Sylvain, but disappointed all the same, “do not put your faith in that boy. He couldn’t even pretend to be decent for a week.”</p>
<p>Ingrid laughed on a short exhale. “I should have known.” She said, shaking her head. Her gaze snapped up to Sylvain, something cold in her eyes.</p>
<p>Sylvain winced. He knew what a good man would say. A good man would deny it, and his reputation would see him through. But Sylvain had no such fortune. His reputation only solidified it as truth, like a rope binding him. It didn’t matter if he hadn’t done anything—if anyone accused him, it was fact. He also had no doubts Miss von Richter had more ‘evidence’ to condemn him. </p>
<p>Her words would turn his reputation into a noose around his throat, dragging him into hell. Well, Ingrid <em>did</em> always say that his habits would catch up with him.</p>
<p>Sylvain couldn’t resist the tremble. Slowly, he removed his hand from her back, looking away with his face hot in shame. He’d deserved this.</p>
<p>But Ingrid’s hand only curled in tighter. “I’d believe you, if I hadn’t been watching him this whole time.”</p>
<p>“You <em>what</em>?<em>” </em>Sylvain’s voice cracked, spared only by the fact that his accusers shouted the same thing.</p>
<p>Count Galatea cleared his throat. “This has apparently been going on well before the ball, my dear. He—”</p>
<p>“I’ve been watching him since he got here.” Ingrid said, tone level. She glared at her father, though it was clear she only did so to avoid Sylvain’s disbelieving stare. “I’ve been cleaning his messes for years. You can’t honestly think that I wouldn’t make sure he was behaving?”</p>
<p>Sylvain blinked, shock still making his voice limited to little more than a whisper. “The whole time?”</p>
<p>She glanced over at him, her smile wry. “Sorry.” She shook her head, looking back to her father. “I expected him to be the problem, but I was wrong. Not once has he given me reason to doubt him. But all of you do. These lies, the background deals, the threats, the . . . the attempt at <em>entrapment</em>—I could never ally myself with people who think this is the way. People who would just use me to cripple my homeland, and who would expect me to play the same game.” She inhaled sharply. “But I can trust him. And I can trust <em>my </em>country, my Kingdom.”</p>
<p>Her father’s expression fell. “Ingrid, the Kingdom is crumbling. If there’s even a doubt—”</p>
<p>“I am a knight of Faerghus.” She stood taller, expression fierce—and Sylvain had never been more enthralled. “It is my duty to protect it. And if I have to marry to prove it, then I will.”</p>
<p>“You’re just a noble <em>girl</em>.” One of the suitors jeered. “Your duty is to be a <em>wife</em>.”</p>
<p>Sylvain barked a laugh, finding it so much easier to find his voice when he spoke for her sake. She trusted him, chose him—it was time for him to earn it. “Say that again if you think she wouldn’t flatten you in thirty seconds.”</p>
<p>The man’s laugh was hollow and mocking. “And the man you’re choosing won’t even fight for your honor.”</p>
<p>“I wouldn’t dare insult her like that.” He smiled, glancing at her and winking. “Unless she asked me to.”</p>
<p>Ingrid rolled her eyes. “Sylvain . . .”</p>
<p>Count Galatea cleared his throat, expression uneasy. “You two are serious about this?”</p>
<p>Sylvain took Ingrid’s free hand, pressing a kiss to it. “I’d cut my own tongue out before I’d lie about this.”</p>
<p>Count Galatea rubbed his face, expression unreadable. “We will discuss this tomorrow.” He turned away, walking away from the dance floor. “For now, please enjoy what’s left of the ball.”</p>
<p>Sylvain swallowed, watching Count Galatea disappear into the crowd. Most peoples’ gazes still focused on them, like they were insects being pinned into a frame. Slowly, their attention shifted—to other partners, to the food, to the wine. Gradually, Sylvain felt like he could move again.</p>
<p>“I’m going to get murdered in my sleep, aren’t I?” He muttered, numbly following Ingrid as she led him to the edge of the room.</p>
<p>Ingrid turned, lips quirking into a fond smile. Her hand reached up to cup his face, thumb running soothing circles over his cheekbone. “I can protect you, if you wanted.”</p>
<p>He tilted his head to kiss her palm. It felt strange, being affectionate like this. Not because he had never done it—he very much had—but because it wasn’t a performance; because it was someone who made him happy, and he wanted to show it.</p>
<p>“I think,” he muttered, eyes fluttering shut, “I think I’d like being the damsel for once.”</p>
<p>Ingrid laughed, shaking her head. “I’m sure you would.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sylvain hummed softly to himself, toying with the folded page of the book in his hands. The histories did little to keep him awake, but they were important; after all, if he was going to marry into Galatea, he needed to know everything. Sure, there was the history they all knew simply from being raised in the Kingdom, but repackaged histories and tales of glory never gave enough useful insight. They never told him what he needed to know about former allies, strengths, centuries-old weaknesses—anything that could possibly be a threat in the future.</p>
<p> A small sigh sounded below him, the sound blissfully content. Ingrid’s breath blew over his knee, cheek nuzzling softly against his thigh as she muttered in her sleep. Her fingers fisted into his coat, draped over her hours ago when she looked cold.</p>
<p>Sylvain smiled, hand moving from the old tome’s pages to her hair. He gently pressed his fingertips against her scalp, massaging there. Periodically, his fingers ran through her curls, though they had fallen to disarray hours ago from time, naps, and his ministrations.</p>
<p>Perhaps it was strange to spend the night in the library. But he had little confidence that a locked door would protect her while she slept, and she had no faith that she’d see him come morning if he went to his room alone. Staying in either of their own rooms together, though, was just as dangerous. Perhaps not for his reputation, but certainly for hers.</p>
<p>And so the library was the perfect compromise between public and private.</p>
<p>Steps drew his attention to one of the doorways. A small group of nobles walked by, chattering amongst themselves. His eyes followed them, not ignorant to the way their steps slowed the moment they were visible in the doorway. And then they went on their way.</p>
<p>They could pretend all they wanted, but they weren’t subtle. Subtle was doing something once; they’d been passing by several times an hour. Just waiting for the one time when Sylvain and Ingrid weren’t together.</p>
<p>“Sylvain?” Ingrid turned her head, cheek red from where it had pressed against her impromptu pillow. She blinked blearily at him, as if still half-asleep. “Do you need to rest?”</p>
<p>Sylvain smiled, “I got enough earlier. Go back to sleep.”</p>
<p>She turned onto her back, legs stretching as far as the couch would allow, an arm reaching up to play with one of his errant locks. Nails scratched softly at his scalp, earning her a pleased noise. “You only slept a couple hours.”</p>
<p>“More than I usually get.” He took her hand in his, kissing her wrist.</p>
<p>Ingrid rolled her eyes. “You can’t charm your way out of everything.”</p>
<p>He hummed against her skin. “Why not?”</p>
<p>“You might not have noticed, but I won’t humor you like the other girls did.” It wasn’t accusatory, just a statement of fact.</p>
<p>Sylvain shifted his attention up, pressing a kiss to the pad of each fingertip. “I’m aware.”</p>
<p>“Then why are you trying to kiss your way out of sleep?”</p>
<p>“I’m not.” He let his lips linger at the scar on her thumb as he finally looked at her, letting himself get caught in her gaze. Her expression was an enjoyable mixture of pleased and irritated, the whole thing muddled by her exhaustion and by the flush on her cheeks. “Maybe I just want to kiss you.”</p>
<p>And he did, more than anything else. A part of him wanted to blame habit—it was exhilarating to use such a simple method to get someone’s complete attention. To, for even the briefest time, have their attention on him. But there was something else behind kissing Ingrid, something different than what he used to do for the fun of it.</p>
<p>With the other girls, there were certain barriers he could not—would not—cross. There was an unspoken language to the press of lips, to the things that one did with another. It was written in a hundred tales, sung in a thousand more songs. And, if he wanted to stay free, he would not cross that line. And so, every kiss with them was kept to the realm of want. His kisses were restrained to their lips, jaw, and throat—places that only translated to pleasure and enjoyment, not emotion or affection.</p>
<p>With Ingrid, though, he wanted to kiss her temples, nose, hair—to make her giggle and shove at him as he smothered her with affection. He wanted to kiss the hands that had kept her alive. He wanted to kiss the feet that brought her to his side. He wanted to kiss her with reverence, kiss her with adoration.</p>
<p>He wanted—dare he even think it—to kiss her with love.</p>
<p>Ingrid pulled her hand away and propped herself on her arms as she scowled at him. Her face was still so close. Her breath mingled with his.</p>
<p>He leaned in to kiss her, and she pulled away.</p>
<p>“You want to kiss me?” She slid her arms into those of his coat, the garment adorably large on her. She sat up straighter, legs shifting to hang properly over the edge of the sofa they shared. Her fingers tapped on her lap. “Then sleep.”</p>
<p>Sylvain couldn’t deny the appeal. His earlier nap had been restless, constantly having to shift his position while resting his head on his shoulder. Even now, he was fighting the lingering ache in his neck. Resting his head in her lap, though, that would probably grant him the best pillow in all of Fodlan.</p>
<p>She raised an eyebrow, the remnants of sleep entirely gone in her expression. “Well?”</p>
<p>With a sigh, he shifted, laying his head on her lap and hooking his knees over the armrest. He looked up at her, his smile wide.</p>
<p>Ingrid smiled, bending to catch his lips with hers. It was gentle and sweet, adoring in a way that left a lingering buzz in his head long after she pulled away.</p>
<p>“Go to sleep.” She whispered, fingers running through his bangs. One of her hands reached to the side, opening a book of knights she used to love as a child.</p>
<p>“Read to me?”</p>
<p>“You’re not a child, Sylvain.” She sighed, shaking her head. Nevertheless, she started to recite familiar words, her voice a melody in the silence.</p>
<p>It was a tale of knights and dragons, of warriors fighting to protect the ones they loved. A tale he had memorized from childhood, that he had read to Ingrid a hundred times before she knew how to read. </p>
<p>He fell asleep well before she reached the end.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Sylvain yawned, leaning against the wall just outside Ingrid’s door. While they had agreed that they couldn’t stay in their formal wear when they met with Count Galatea, he felt that this was perhaps a bit excessive. </p>
<p>It was a precautionary measure more than anything. For him, it was for a lingering concern that everything would change if he was too far away—that she’d come to her senses and rethink this whole thing. For Ingrid, though, he was sure that she was worried that their concerns in the night could just be as easily replicated in the day.</p>
<p>At least, that was the only explanation he could think of for why she had reacted so drastically when his foot got caught in his pants as he changed—his face hitting the floor. Ingrid had burst into the room, yelping like she’d been burned the moment she saw a half-dressed man crumpled on the floor. He’d expected her to be mad at him being a fool—and yet she had laughed, falling into poorly-contained giggles as she knelt by his side. He smiled up at her, too enamored by the brightness in her expression to be embarrassed. He didn’t complain as she caressed his face, kissing his forehead.And, before his embarrassment could crawl in once more, she promptly left the room to leave him to his privacy as he finished dressing. Though he was pretty sure he wouldn’t have minded if she’d stayed there. </p>
<p>He rubbed at his forehead, the area sore but at least not forming a lump.</p>
<p>“She dump you already, Gautier?” A noble jeered, stopping just out of Sylvain’s arms’ reach. A few others were behind him, all of them clearly friendly now that there was no competition.</p>
<p>One of the others scoffed. “Only <em>he</em> could be engaged then single in the span of a day.”</p>
<p>Sylvain yawned again, crossing his arms and tilting his head to better hear Ingrid. The shuffling was almost done. Which meant soon he’d have to face the wrath of her father.</p>
<p>“Gautier,” one of them stepped closer, “are you ignoring us?”</p>
<p>The door cracked open, and the distance between him and the nobles immediately grew.</p>
<p>“Sylvain,” Ingrid slid her arm into the nook of his elbow, sliding her hand down his arm till their fingers could lace together, “are you ready?”</p>
<p>He kissed the back of her hand, watching as the former suitors scampered away. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”</p>
<p>The journey to Count Galatea’s office was a surprisingly quiet one. There were no servants moving, no nobles skulking in the corners. It was the sort of peace Galatea had before the war—before everything had fallen into a whirlwind of chaos. It soothed his threatening anxiety, making him think that—for once—things might actually go normally.</p>
<p>That was until they heard shouting through the door of the office. The content was muffled, words indistinguishable, but the feeling was there enough to know.</p>
<p>He squeezed Ingrid’s hand and walked inside.</p>
<p>A remarkably small number of nobles occupied the room with Count Galatea. Not even the council was there, the activity far too early in the morning for their attention, meaning that all of the rage centered directly on the Count. These men completely disregarded decorum, pounding their fists against his desk, leaning over him, and simply yelling.</p>
<p>Based on the bags under Count Galatea’s eyes, they had been at this since before sunrise.</p>
<p>“<em>This</em>,” one of the men jabbed a finger toward Sylvain, “was <em>not </em>what we agreed upon!”</p>
<p>Count Galatea rubbed at his temples. “The agreement was that you could stay in Galatea so long as you provided resources. Sylvain hardly has any influence on that.”</p>
<p>“To stay in Galatea <em>and </em>have an opportunity to marry your daughter into one of our families!”</p>
<p>“I <em>did </em>let you try.” The Count leaned back in his chair. “For two months, I let you try.”</p>
<p>“And yet you conveniently let <em>him </em>interfere.”</p>
<p>“History would show that Sylvain’s visits are hardly ever <em>convenient</em>.” Count Galatea sighed. “Besides, I believe it to be more reflective on you that you had so much time, and yet still you lost to a known philanderer.”</p>
<p>“For the breach of contract—”</p>
<p>“—what <em>breach</em>?—”</p>
<p>“—we demand our resources back.”</p>
<p>Count Galatea exhaled sharply through his nose. <em>This</em> was the precipice that the man had clearly been dreading. The reason why he wanted so badly for Sylvain to be joking. To deny the Dukedom and Adrestia would only lead to war. But Galatea could not return what had undoubtedly had been mostly consumed by his ‘guests’.</p>
<p>Ingrid’s fingers clenched tighter around his.</p>
<p>“You’re welcome to try,” a deep voice drawled, the sound so familiar that it sent a chill up Sylvain’s spine, “if you wish to spill your own blood for it.”</p>
<p>Sylvain’s attention snapped to the doorway behind them. There, standing in the path, was his father.  His expression was stern—it always was—unfazed as he strode into the room. Sylvain barely pulled Ingrid out of his way, keeping her as close as he could.</p>
<p>He eyed his father. The man wore the cloak of the Margrave, the Crest of Gautier woven into the fabric. His regalia shimmered with the candlelight, the wide frame of the armor making his form all the more intimidating.  The man’s gloved hand rested on the pommel of his blade, fingers pressing into the metal. Subtle, but Sylvain knew how to translate the rage boiled beneath.</p>
<p>“Who do you think you are?” An Adrestian noble hissed, teeth gnashing. “This is a private matter!”</p>
<p>Margrave Gautier glanced at him, but it was hardly for more than a second. It was as if the man wasn’t  worthy of licking his boot, let alone garnering his attention.</p>
<p>“Lord von Richter. Gentlemen.” Count Galatea cleared his throat. “May I introduce you to Margrave Gautier?” The man’s smile was weak. “I admit, I did not expect you here, not after you sent your son.”</p>
<p>The Margrave hummed, golden eyes falling on Sylvain, lips drawn into a fine line. “My son has a penchant for stirring up conflict.” His attention shifted to Sylvain’s fingers entwined with Ingrid’s. His eyes narrowed.</p>
<p>Lord von Richter growled, lip curled into a sneer. “Your son <em>is </em>instigating by pressing this matter. If I knew no better, I would think he wished to court war, not Galatea’s daughter.”</p>
<p>Sylvain watched the smallest trace of a smile pull at the corner of his father’s lips. Anger boiled in his blood at his father’s smugness—at his victory—but this was not the place. He had to disregard his pride if they were to stand any hope here.</p>
<p>“From what I can tell,” the Margrave said, turning his attention back toward Galatea, “it appears the matter is already settled.”</p>
<p>“It is <em>not</em>.” Lord von Richter hissed. “You should drag your son home and let us continue our business!”</p>
<p>“Allow me to extend you another offer.” The Margrave said, voice chilling. “Leave with your life intact, or try to recover your pride and I shall make you leave in a casket.”</p>
<p>“Are you threatening me?”</p>
<p>Margrave Gautier smiled.</p>
<p>“Lord von Richter,” one of the men hissed, pulling at the noble’s clothes, “please, drop the matter.” Sylvain recognized him as a lesser noble of the Kingdom, one of the first to turn to the Dukedom. “If Gautier invests himself, I guarantee hell will be upon us.”</p>
<p>Lord von Richter’s lip curled. With a flourish, he turned, stomping out of the room. His men turned tail and trailed behind him.</p>
<p>And then it was only the Kingdom’s men who remained.</p>
<p>“Ha . . .” Count Galatea fell back into his chair, rubbing his eyes, “I do hope you two realize the seriousness of the matter. You have put us in a very fragile position.”</p>
<p>The Margrave snorted. “Don’t be so dramatic.”</p>
<p>The Count eyed him thoughtfully. “I am surprised you left so much faith in your son. But I am glad for it. Our families have long since been due an alliance.”</p>
<p>The Margrave took the seat across from the Count, resting his chin on his knuckles. “You mean since Fraldarius is no longer amenable to arrangements.”</p>
<p>“Be fair, Gautier. Our families’ best interests are not so different.” The Count smiled. “If we secure them appropriately, that is.”</p>
<p>The Margrave’s head tilted. “You mean quickly.”</p>
<p>“Well,” the smile widened, “would it not be best to secure a . . . legacy . . . in the winter to come?”</p>
<p>Ingrid and Sylvain glanced at each other, expressions grim.</p>
<p>“That is fair enough.” The Margrave shifted, hands steepled together. “Perhaps in the late summer, then. That way, when winter comes, Sylvain can appropriately handle his duties with Sreng and—”</p>
<p>“Wait.” Ingrid said, voice nearly a squeak. Sylvain had to give her credit that she did not flinch when both men stared at her.</p>
<p>“You cannot tell me you are serious, Ingrid,” the Count said, scowl growing, “then refuse to marry.”</p>
<p>“I-I’m not refusing.” Ingrid stammered. “Just, I want to delay till after the Ethereal Moon.”</p>
<p>The Margrave scowled. “Why is that?”</p>
<p>Sylvain chewed the inside of his cheek. “We were going to meet Felix then. And, Dimitri, if Felix finds him.” He didn’t miss his father’s eyeroll. “I would want their blessing—or at the very least, have Felix agree to be my witness. He’s the only man I trust enough.”</p>
<p>The Margrave opened his mouth to argue, to ridicule them for their foolishness—what was a promised meeting to a legacy?—but Galatea interrupted. “I understand. But, after that time, you two <em>will </em>marry. We can not afford it to delay more than that.”</p>
<p>The Margrave sneered. “Galatea—”</p>
<p>“We will need the time to make the arrangements and write our agreements. A couple months longer to wait will not ruin us.” Her father looked at Ingrid, a slight smile on his face. Perhaps this was the only kindness he was going to grant her. “You two may leave us.”</p>
<p>Sylvain didn’t need to be asked twice—he dragged Ingrid out of the room, quickly shutting the door behind them.</p>
<p>He laughed on a shaky exhale. “I thought my father was going to skin me.”</p>
<p>Ingrid sighed. “There’s still time for that.”</p>
<p>“Oh, <em>thanks</em>.”</p>
<p>She laughed, her hand squeezing his affectionately. Rather quickly, though, the laughs died down, her expression shifting into something both thoughtful and concerned. “So . . . what are we going to do?”</p>
<p>Sylvain hummed. “Depends. You still want to marry me?”</p>
<p>“Yes.”</p>
<p>“Okay. So . . . come the Millenium, we act normal. Normal as we can, anyway.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “If no one comes, then it’s just you and me. We get married, we look out for each other.”</p>
<p>Ingrid nodded.</p>
<p>“If someone <em>does </em>show up, and it’s Felix, we get his approval. If His Highness comes, too, then we get his, too. Of course, he might have had a thing for you, and—<em>ow</em>!” He winced, rubbing at a definitely-bruised rib.</p>
<p>“We get their approval,” Ingrid echoed, “<em>and</em> we help them—whatever it is they’re doing next.”</p>
<p>Sylvain exhaled sharply. “Yeah. And . . . knowing them, they’re going to go on the offensive. And . . . and whatever becomes of <em>. . . </em>of <em>us</em> . . . depends on if we make it through the war.” He laughed, the sound weak and harsh. “<em>If </em>we make it.”</p>
<p>His stomach churned with the thought of losing her. Of coming this far, only for her to be taken away.</p>
<p>Ingrid pulled him down by his collar, kissing him in a way that was attractively demanding. “Stop that.” She muttered against his lips. “Whatever happens, we’ll make it—together.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Fine me on Twitter:  <a href="https://twitter.com/kayisdreaming">@kayisdreaming </a>!<br/>And, once again, please please please check out the artwork done by <a href="https://twitter.com/tinypaperstar">@tinypaperstar </a>: <a href="https://twitter.com/tinypaperstar/status/1347982385661562882">ART </a></p></blockquote></div></div>
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